


There Are Many Names In History (but none of them are ours)

by GoddessofBirth



Series: There Are Many Names In History [1]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, F/M, Homophobic Language, Humor, I always feel like I need more explanatory tags, Jennifer/Derek, M/M, Past Abuse, Past Relationship(s), Romance, Secret Relationship, Smut, Stiles/Cora, Time Travel, and then I'll up the rating, at some point, bb!Peter and bb!Chris wind up in present day Beacon Hills, because COME ON just imagine it, chaos ensues and secrets are revealed and it's really fucking angsty but also really fucking funny, look it's like this, mention of underage sex trade
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-07-28
Updated: 2017-02-07
Packaged: 2017-12-21 14:26:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 33
Words: 169,131
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/901347
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GoddessofBirth/pseuds/GoddessofBirth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles is driving in his jeep when the horrible, no good, very bad thing happens.  In which 17 year old Peter Hale and Chris Argent materialize in present day Beacon Hills and things become awkward very, very fast.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Deutsch available: [Die Geschichte kennt viele Namen (Doch unsere sind nicht dabei)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1581413) by [alphadine](https://archiveofourown.org/users/alphadine/pseuds/alphadine), [GoddessofBirth](https://archiveofourown.org/users/GoddessofBirth/pseuds/GoddessofBirth)



> For the purposes of this fic I will only be using canon up to episode 3 x 07. Anything after that I will pick and choose as I please. Also, this is just something I'm kind of fooling around with in my free time, so it will get updated sporadically.

 

Stiles is driving in his jeep when it happens. When the horrible, no good, very bad thing happens. It's night, because _of course_ it's night, and the road is deserted, and he's singing at the top of his lungs to _Shoop_ (What? Salt N Pepa were totally awesome _shut up_.) It's not even _raining_ for fuck's sake, but out of nowhere a bolt of lightening strikes, so close and bright that he's temporarily blinded. He slams on his brakes and throws his arms over his eyes and when his vision finally clears there's a crack in the middle of the road and -

 

Bodies.

 

There are two fucking _bodies_ in front of his jeep.

 

He throws the jeep into park, and clamors out, grabbing for his cell while chanting _please don't be dead please don't be dead_ interspersed with _oh my god how is this my life what the absolute fuck_? He slides to his knees by the body closest to him, and an immense wave of relief crashes through him as the kid – and it is a kid, probably his own age, Stiles thinks – coughs and groans and rolls to his hands and knees.

 

Stiles really can't deal with any more dead people this month.

 

His hair is blond, and just unkempt enough that it curls at his ears, and even though Stiles' doesn't recognize him, he's wearing a Beacon Hills' letterman's jacket so they must go to school together. He coughs again, and shakes his head like a dog, and Stiles grabs his shoulder to steady him.

 

“Hey – hey, man, you okay? Are you hurt? Can you hear me?” The guy woozily turns his head toward him, blue-green eyes not quite focused, and Stiles isn't sure he's actually seeing him. “Hey...hey. My name is Stiles. Can you tell me your name? Can you tell me what happened?”

 

The kid blinks, and wobbles, and Stiles tightens his hold. And he definitely doesn't know this guy, but there's something about the way he narrows his eyes and purses his lips that is weirdly familiar. “I don't...no, I...My name is Chris. I live just down...Why is it night? It shouldn't be night.”

 

Stiles shrugs. “It's night, dude. Do you remember how you got here? Like seriously, anything? I'm gonna call 911, okay?”

 

Chris shakes his head again. “No, no, I think I'm...I don't remember...Peter and I were just walking home from pra--” He stiffens at about the same time Stiles remembers the second body. Chris scrambles up before Stiles can stop him, almost falls, then rights himself. “Where's Peter? Where's Peter?” He follows the direction of Stiles gaze and makes a choking sound. “Oh God, _nonononono_.”

 

He darts across the road, and by the time Stiles gets there, he's already on his knees, cradling the other kid's – Peter? – body in his arms. “Hey, Petie. Hey, Petie, come on.” He cups Peter's face in his hands and presses his thumbs against his cheeks. “Come on, baby, wake up. _Wake up._ I can hear you breathing, asshole, so just open your eyes for me, okay?”

 

Peter is wearing a letterman's jacket, too, and Stiles can see a basketball pin glinting on it. Which is weird, because he's pretty sure he knows the whole basketball team, and this kid isn't on it. His black hair is just a little bit shaggy, too, and he's gangly and long legged, and just when Stiles is giving in and dialing 911, he groans and coughs and opens some of the bluest eyes Stiles has ever seen. The only person he knows with eyes that naturally blue is –

 

Stiles takes a step back, slowly mouthing _oh my God_ , and starts dialing an entirely different number.

 

Peter reaches up and trails his fingers over Chris' cheek, his lips curving up sweetly. “You called me an _asshole_ , you jerk. When I could have been _dying_.

 

Chris wraps his arms around him and buries his face in his neck. Stiles can just make out the muffled “Oh my God, you fucker, don't you ever scare me like that again.”

 

Stiles is pretty sure he's going to vomit. He clears his throat and the couple – oh yeah, those two are definitely a _couple_ – snap their heads around to look at him. “So, ah, what did you say your last names were again?”

 

Peter rolls his eyes and mother of God, _that_ he definitely recognizes. “Cute. As if anyone in this town doesn't know who Chris Argent and Peter Hale are. But it's adorable that you tried.”

 

The other end of the phone line finally picks up with a cheerful “Hey man, what's up? Thought you were coming over to watch movies with us?”

 

“Hey, yeah, about that, Scott. I'm thinking you'd better come out here and meet me instead”


	2. Chapter 2

 

He hits his first snag as soon as he hangs up with Scott.

 

“What's that?” Chris is staring at him, eyebrows drawn together. Luckily for Stiles, Chris the teenager is nowhere near as intimidating as Mr. Argent. And it's a little hard to take him seriously when he's _cuddling_ someone. But it takes him a minute to realize Chris is talking about his phone.

 

“It's...a cell phone? Did you hit...your...” Oh shit. He bets Mr. Argent was an 80s kid. He remembers catching some old episodes of X-Files, and the cell phones the size of small boulders. And that was the _nineties._ Did they even _have_ cell phones in the 80s? He decides to bluff it out.

 

“It's, ah, new. Experimental.” He shrugs breezily and shoves it in his pocket. “So hey, let's get out of the road.” He jerks his thumb back at his Jeep. “I can give you guys a ride home, but I kind of need to meet my friend over at his work first.” He hadn't actually told Scott anything, mainly on account he didn't want freakouts on both ends of the line until he knew what was happening, but Scott knew him well enough to hear the imminent panic in Stiles' tone and had quickly suggested Deaton's as a middle ground. Which good, yeah, smart idea.

 

“So if you guys wanna hop in? Won't take long I promise.”

 

Chris' eyes narrow, and as Stiles watches, his body language totally shifts. His shoulders straighten and the line of his back tenses, and his hand drops to his pocket. In the space of five seconds Stiles isn't looking at a teenager anymore, he's looking at a hunter. A hunter who probably has a weapon in his pocket at the very least. _Shiiiiit_. He should have known Chris would already be training, would know enough of the supernatural to know that memory loss and location displacement aren't something to explain away. 

 

Peter catches whatever Chris is exuding, and he slowly stands, leaving Chris free to stand as well. His fingers flex at his sides like he's just itching to grow claws and that answers the question of whether or not the two of them know what the other did in their spare time.

 

Wow, Mr. Argent is a big, fat _hypocrite_. Stiles mentally reviews all the times Mr. Argent and Peter – adult Peter? This had the potential to get confusing _fast_ – have been in a room together. They've never made a single noise about knowing each other, much less _knowing_ each other. They don't even _look_ at each other if they can help it, which Stiles always assumed was due to the fact of oh, you know, murderous Aunt Kate and murderous Uncle Peter. Now he wonders.

 

Chris clears his throat, his hand deep in his pocket. “Where does your friend work?”

 

Stiles smiles again, doing his best to look very, very nonthreatening. “The vet! Dogs, cats, you know.”

 

Peter starts. “Dr. Deaton? Your friend works with Dr. Deaton?” He exchanges a look with Chris, and it's then Stiles remembers the whole “emissary” thing.

 

“Yes!” He claps his hands excitedly. “Yes! Exactly! Dr. Deaton! My friend works for Dr. Deaton!” Safe, safe, Dr. Deaton. “So we can go?”

 

Chris doesn't seem to be buying it. He works his jaw and the fingers not hidden in his pocket are fidgeting in the air.

 

“Seriously, guys, five minutes.” He knows his heart is racing, but his heart has been racing since he stepped out of the Jeep, so hopefully Peter won't notice the lie.

 

After another minute, Peter tugs on the sleeve of Chris' jacket. “Christopher. It's _Deaton_.”

 

Christopher. _Okay_.

 

Chris slides his hand from his pocket and smiles and _oh_ , it's totally Mr. Argent's “everything is completely fine except no it isn't and I'm watching you” smile. Good to know.

 

“Yeah, sure. We'll hitch a ride.” Stiles breathes a sigh of relief.

 

The five minute ride to the clinic is...educational. Both Chris and Peter sit in the back seat. They exchange a lot of glances and Chris is working some serious eyebrow communication, but other than their heads bent together, they don't touch each other at all. Not like they had in the road, when Chris had been afraid Peter was hurt. Stiles almost, _almost_ re-evaluates his relationship assessment, but then Peter darts a glance at the front seat, and, apparently deciding Stiles isn't watching, he slides his hand between he and Chris and hooks their pinkies together. Through the rear view, Stiles sees Chris break into a kind of grin Mr. Argent _never_ has, and Peter grins back just as happily.

 

Which would all be sort of adorable if it weren't _Chris Argent_ and _Peter Hale_ making eyes in his backseat and in some sort of hush hush relationship.

 

Oh yeah, Mr. Argent is a big, big, _Olympic size swimming pool_ hypocrite.

 

Maybe it should bother Stiles that it's the identity of the time travelers that confounds him most, rather than, oh, the time traveling itself, but, _come on_ , it's _Mr. Argent_ and _Peter Hale_. That's way, way weirder than time travel or Darachs or even alpha packs. That...that is down right _freaky_.

 

Scott's mom's car is in the parking lot when Stiles pulls up, and he breaths a sigh of relief. At least he won't be freaking out alone now.

 

* * * * * * *

 

Chris doesn't like this. He doesn't like this at all. Something is wrong. For one, they're missing three hours. For two, where he woke up isn't anywhere _near_ where they were walking. And for three? It's summer. Except it should be fall.

 

Deaton's store front looks different, too, and from the way Peter tenses beside him, he notices it, as well. But the kid – Stiles – doesn't say anything, just jumps out the Jeep and walks toward the front door. Chris doesn't like him. Doesn't like the way he's not telling the truth. Doesn't like the way he keeps looking at him and Peter like there's something wrong with them. He _knows_ he accidentally let the cat out of the bag, that he touched Peter way too intimately for the friends they're supposed to be. But he was just so _worried_. Well, Stiles had better keep his small town opinions himself or Chris has no problem kicking his ass. He figures he's gonna have to do a little bit of that anyway, to make sure Stiles doesn't blab his mouth at school.

 

His stomach twists when he thinks about the possibility of word getting to Gerard, and he tastes bile in the back of his throat. But, what the hell, the kid already knows, so he reaches out and grabs Peter's hand as they enter the clinic. Peter makes a pleased noise and then glares at Stiles' back. He'd obviously felt it too, and frankly, if they weren't at Deaton's, Chris would halfway be expecting some of Stiles' friends to be waiting in the back to jump the couple of _homos_.

 

Instead, it's a dark haired, Latino kid with a bright grin that suddenly turns puzzled, and a taller, curly haired blond, with slumped shoulders and a smile that reminds Chris of Peter's when he's feeling just insecure enough that he resorts to haughty smugness. He's fiddling with a beaker but looks up as they enter.

 

But Chris barely sees them before Peter's skidding to a halt and jerking Chris back and behind him. “Christopher,” He hisses, giving him a warning look over his shoulder that has Chris reaching for his knife, “they're --”

 

At the same time, the dark haired boy steps forward. “Where did you find them? Which one is --”

 

Stiles points to Peter, and only then seems to realize he has his claws out and his fangs bared and Chris' knife is held by his side. His eyes widen and he holds his hands out toward both groups in a placating manner.

 

“Whoa, whoa, wait. Yes, yeah, okay, they're werewolves. But whoa, okay, no need to bring the fangs and the hunter out.” He realizes his slip as soon as he's made it, at about the same time Chris drops his second knife from the inside of his sleeve to his palm. _Nobody_ in this town should know what his family does.

 

“Okay, hey, let's do introductions first. I promise, we're all friends here. Scott, Isaac, this is --” he takes a deep breath and squinches his face. “Peter and Chris.”

 

Scott – or Isaac? Stiles wasn't exactly specific – grins again. “Hey, like Mr. --”

 

Stiles cuts him off with a head shake. “No, not like. As in... _is_. Chris Argent and Peter Hale.” He says it like they're a dirty word. Like they're a _disease_. Chris snarls and moves to step around Peter and show that ass exactly how bad of a disease he can be, but he's interrupted by the sound of a beaker shattering as the blond loses his grip on it and it drops to the floor.

 

The blond looks from the ground to his hand, then back to Chris and Peter, and his mouth works silently before a single word slips out.

 

“Fuck.”


	3. Chapter 3

 

This is not the best day Peter has ever had (although to be honest, any day that includes Chris isn't exactly a _bad_ day.) He's in Deaton's office, which should be safe, but it's not, it's _not_. Deaton is barely older than him and Chris, has _just_ opened his practice, but the building doesn't look right, the air smells wrong – _old –_ and it makes the wolf clamor for his anchor. 

 

His nails dig into Chris' palm and Chris pulls him more snugly against him.

 

Scott kneels next to Isaac and starts picking up shards of glass. He smells like power. Alpha power. Peter is only a little bit jealous that a kid that young has his own pack; mostly he's wondering how fast he can get back to Talia and let her know a strange pack is in town.

 

There's silence for a few beats and then Isaac, who smells timid and unsure, leans into Scott and says, quiet and plaintive, “But they're holding hands.” It's loud enough for Peter to hear, and, unfortunately for them, Chris, as well. Peter can almost taste his anger as his shoulders tense and he darts in front of Peter.

 

“Yeah, that's right. Poofs, queers, fags, nancy boys, homos. Did I miss any? Go ahead and get it out, because I promise I can still grind your ass into the ground.” Chris' hands are balled up into fists and Peter is going to rip someone's face off for upsetting him.

 

Except a strangled, disbelieving sound pulls their attention back to Stiles. Stiles who managed to lie and not get caught. Stiles who brought them into a mess of werewolves under false pretenses. Stiles who Peter is going to watch very, very closely.

 

“Seriously? _Seriously_? You think _that's_ why Isaac looks like he's gonna pass out? Because you like _dick_?”

 

“Of course they do.” Scott's voice is quiet from his place on the floor and Stiles whips his head around. Stupid, because Chris immediately advances on him, but Peter wants to hear what the boy has to say so he grabs Chris' hand and pulls him back. “Think about where they're from.”

 

Stiles' brows draw together and then spring up as his eyes widen infinitesimally and his mouth _ohs_. “Ha ha, yeah no. Let me clear that up for you.” He stabs a finger at his chest. “Bi.” He points to Isaac. “ _So_ bi. Our friend Danny? Gay. And his _boyfriend_ is a part of Scott's pack.”

 

The noise Peter makes is scornful. Amused. “Wait. Is this some kind of...gay support group? Don't get me wrong. It's wonderful for all of you, I'm sure. But Christopher and I are just fi--”

 

“What do you mean 'where we're from?'” Chris interrupts, low and urgent. Oh. There _was_ that. Scott looks pointedly at the wall to the left of them, at a calendar. It's stuck on June, when it's actually September, but it's not the first time someone has fallen behind on flipping a calendar page. Hardly criminal, or stunning. He opens his mouth to say something appropriately scornful when Chris' hold on his hand spasms painfully.

 

“The date, Petie.”

 

“ _Petie_?” Peter hears Stiles choke it out, but it's just white noise, because he's focusing on the fine print in the upper right corner, a delicate cursive scripting of two thousand twe –

 

 _Shit_.

 

“This is a joke,” he says finally. “Christopher, this is some kind of joke.” He doesn't believe that, not really. Not with Deaton's office all wrong, and the air tasting off. It fits. It fits in a horrible, terrible way, but his brain is still spinning to catch up with it. And, well, he has his defenses. He whirls on the boys, who are watching the two of them warily.

 

“But you recognized us. I _know_ you did. You knew who we were before you brought us here. How did you --”

 

“Exactly. _Exactly_.” Stiles is practically vibrating, as Scott stands up and gives him a look that is definitely supposed to convey some kind of warning. Peter glances at Chris to make sure he caught it (he did) as Stiles plows on unfettered. “Yeah, we know you. _Old_ you. Like bazillion year old you. Well, forties or something at least. And let me tell you. Let me tell you, the two of you-- the two of you are not the same.”

 

“How are we not the same?” Chris' voice is calm and placid, which means he's probably more freaked out than Peter. That's the secret to Chris, the thing it took Peter years to learn. The more emotionless he is, the more carefree? The more upset and anger are boiling just beneath the surface. He has his breaking points, of course, but no one ever sees that but Peter, because Peter is the only person Chris trusts enough to expose his underbelly.

 

Whatever Stiles might have said is interrupted by a door slamming in the parking lot, and he brightens, while Scott jumps and grimaces. Stiles looks over his shoulder at him. “Is that Deaton? Please, dear _God_ tell me it's Deaton.”

 

Scott reluctantly shakes his head. “Deaton's out of town with Ms. Morell. Some kind of 'Sorry we tried to kill each other but hey, we're still family' thing. It's, um...it's Allison.”

 

“Are you kidding me? Are you freaking kidding me, Scott? Because that is _not_ funny. Christ, why would you call _Allison_?”

 

“Because I didn't _know!_ You didn't say, remember? I thought we might would need hunter-y things! I had no idea that -” He cuts his eyes at them, then snaps his mouth shut. “I should go meet her. Um, fill her in first.”

 

“You _think_?” Stiles glares at Scott as he slips out the door, but Peter is too busy concentrating on the fact they've invited some kind of _hunter_ to this meeting, not to mention that Marin, who is all of _six_ and pesters Deaton for piggy back rides is now out trying to _kill_ people.

 

“Who's Allison?” Chris is eying the back exit and the windows as he asks, no doubt plotting the quickest escape route. Peter isn't _that_ concerned, because no hunters are going to hurt them at Deaton's – emissaries are sacrosanct – but Chris is always thinking ten steps ahead and five eventualities out. Peter might be the traditionally smarter of the two, but Chris' eye to detail has been beaten into him like a second nature.

 

Stiles looks like he's thinking about not answering Chris, but then he shrugs. “Dude, she's your daughter.”

 

Peter's eyebrows shoot up, and a part of him wants to laugh, but really, it makes perfect sense. Because despite what his father is trying to turn him into, and despite what the rest of the world sees, there's something in Chris that's always been incredibly gentle and nurturing, if he's allowed. Peter only has to look at him with Katie to see that. Of _course_ he'd want kids.

 

Then his heart lurches and pounds in his chest when Chris half grins at him, because yeah, it makes perfect sense, and the amusement in his voice is laced with pleased wonderment when he breathes “We have a daughter?”

 

But Stiles laughs, the sharp point of it edged with cruelty. “ _What?_ No. You two don't have a daughter. He – Mr. Argent – has a daughter. With his _wife_.” Peter's stomach drops and and acid burns the back of his throat and everything, everything, _everything_ is wrong again; he barely hears Stiles mutter something about _well, dead wife but still_ as Chris makes a broken noise beside him before straightening his back.

 

“You're a fucking liar,” Chris spits out, and he's got Peter shoved behind him, prepared to take a bullet for him, just like always. It steadies Peter some, gives him a rope to cling to in the sudden flood of _we're not together_? that he can't even comprehend.

 

“Yeah, no. That's why you're freaking us the freak out. Because you two?” He swings his pointer finger back and forth between the two of them. “You _hate_ each other. Don't _talk_ to each other. Barely stay in the same room with each other when we all have to work together. Heck, none of us even knew you guys _knew_ each other before...before. And definitely not...not... _this_.” He makes a face that leaves no doubt how offensive he finds them.

 

Every one of his words are a physical blow and Peter finds himself backing further and further toward the wall, until he's up against it and he can't go any further. But he sure as hell tries. Chris has moved with him every step of the way, a barrier that can't do anything to keep the words out.

 

“In fact,” Stiles plows on, and Peter can feel his control slipping. There's very little he knows for sure in his life, but one of those things is the truth of him and Chris, of the permanence of their connection.

 

“In fact, I'm pretty sure Mr. Argent would kill Peter if he thought he could--” He breaks off as his face crumples to confusion, an expression Isaac joins him in. “Why the hell are your eyes yellow?”

 

Shit. He hadn't realized his eyes had gone. He blinks and shakes his head and then the implications of what Stiles has said carves deep into his chest.

 

“Of course my eyes are yellow. Why wouldn't they be yellow?” He hates the way his voice sounds, panicky and short of breath, and with a rasp that indicates he'd already be shifted if he were a lesser wolf. But of course he's not a lesser wolf. He's a _Hale._ Chris flips around, puts his back to Stiles and Isaac and cups Peter's face in his hands.

 

“Petie, he's lying, okay? He's lying or he's confused. You know there's no way. There's no way I would ever hurt you. There's no way I would ever not be with you. I promise.” It's not as effective as it could be, mainly because while Chris' voice is calm, his eyes are looking nearly as panicked as Peter feels.

 

“But why wouldn't my eyes be yellow, Chris? Maybe I hurt you. Maybe I hurt you and you left me.”

 

He knows he has the capacity. Remembers all too well how he'd almost torn his little brother's face off during his first shift. How the overwhelming desire for destruction had terrified him. But also _thrilled_ him. How he had struggled between the two extremes every full moon, a hard enough task for any eleven year old, even one born into it. Until two years later he'd met Chris. Chris who had made everything better. Made it so Peter didn't have to choke himself on his own leash just to maintain control. He's far less concerned about who his future self might have killed than with the fact he might somehow have driven Chris away. He wouldn't have. _Wouldn't_.

 

His breath is going shallow and shocky and Chris presses their foreheads together so that Peter can feel his breath on his lips. “You didn't, Petie. I don't care what they say. You didn't. And I would never leave.”

 

Which is of course when Scott walks in with The Girl.

 

Her face is easy to read: shock...horror...fear... _fury_. Her arms are crossed and her lips are pressed tight. She's pretty, and she carries herself like Chris, and Peter hates her. Hates her so much on sight. Because whatever alternate, _fucked_ up dimension they've landed in – this can't be their future, it _can't_ be - she represents there is some world, somewhere, where he and Chris aren't together.

 

He wants to _kill_ her.

 

Chris just gives her an ugly look and stays pressed against Peter, stroking his thumb over Peter's cheekbone.

 

The Girl... _Allison_...stupid, insipid name, even though Peter knows it was Chris' mother's name...glances at Scott and nods slowly. Her voice is frustrated, but Peter can hear a note of resignation in it. “He looks just like the pictures I've seen of dad. I don't understand, Scott. This is...why would he...” She makes an angry noise. “This makes no _sense_.”

 

Scott frowns apologetically, although Peter doesn't see what he has to be sorry _for_ , unless he's one of those annoying people who feels the need to feel bad for everyone's feelings (and in that case, Peter loathes him immediately). “I know. I know. I don't understand it, either.” And _then_ he puts his arm around her shoulders and kisses her forehead. Well, then. He and Chris exchange another look and Chris finally verbally acknowledges her.

 

“You guys are together?”

 

Scott nods, but it's once again Stiles who barrels into the conversation. “Yeah. Oh, and guess what? You and the wifey tried to _kill him_ when you found out.” Scott shoots him a look and something in it quells him, although he still finished sullenly. “You can see why she's a little pissed at this development.”

 

Peter is probably the only person who hears the tiny, sub-vocal whine Chris stifles, and his fingers on Peter's face tighten spasmodically. Peter presses into them for half a second, then swallows and meets Stiles' eyes, because he has to know. “Did I hurt Chris? Is that what happened?”

 

Stiles opens his mouth, starts to say something, changes his mind, then starts again. He seems calmer now. More sincere. “Dude, we _don't know_. Did you miss that part? None of us have any idea what happened. None of us had any _idea_.”

 

“Then take us to them.” Chris' voice is steady and resolute, and his words aren't a request. “Take us to them and we'll ask them ourselves.”

 

Stiles looks at Isaac, and then at Scott, who in turn looks to Allison. It's an interesting dynamic and one he'll pick apart in the future, maybe when he's no longer feeling like he's going insane. As it is, Allison finally shrugs helplessly.

 

“I don't think we have a choice at this point, do we?”

 

* * * * * * * * *

 

They end up choosing Derek's loft, because everybody knows how to break in anyway, and it's been used as a meeting place often enough that neither Mr. Argent or Peter will question it. And it's not like Peter would step foot in the Argent house, or vice versa. So really, it's the only choice. Stiles paces back and forth across the main room, glad that they couldn't get Derek on the phone, because this whole mess is volatile enough without adding him in yet. He's gotten...better...in the last year, but he's never gonna be what Stiles would consider level headed. Plus, Mr. Argent just doesn't like him. Willing to work with him when necessary, sure, but Stiles is pretty sure Mr. Argent won't be crying at Derek's funeral.

 

He makes a face at where Chris and Peter are tucked into the corner of the window seat. Chris' arms and legs are wrapped around Peter and their foreheads are pressed together as they whisper back and forth to each other. That's _never_ not going to be disturbing, and you'd think they'd be a little more discreet with the PDA, but _no_. Scott is too busy doing his own comforting of Allison to commiserate with Stiles, so he turns to Isaac for some solidarity at the wrongness of it all.

 

Except Isaac is watching them with something that looks suspiciously like _fondness_. Like he wants to prop his head on his chin and coo. Goddammit, may as well just draw kawaii eyes on his face and throw a flower crown in for good measure. Stiles whacks him in the back of the head and hisses –

 

“The hell, Isaac?”

 

Isaac starts and ducks his head, the tips of his ears reddening. For half a second he looks apologetic, but then he shrugs. “Come on, Stiles. _Look_ at them. I don't know...they're _cute_ together. Didn't you hear all that stuff they were saying to each other at the clinic?” He nods his head toward where Chris has his eyes closed and the corner of his lips turned up as Peter scratches his nails back and forth across the back of his neck. _Ha!_ Bet he wouldn't be smiling if he knew what Peter could do with those nails in his neck.

 

“Seriously,Isaac? _Seriously_? You understand who you're looking at right? Mr. Argent sent people to _kill_ you. And Peter...who _hasn't_ Peter tried to kill? That over there? That is not cute. That's...that's like a whole big ball of fucked up wrong. And them being here? It has to mean something bad, too. We don't just get visitors from the past for funsies. It's never for funsies here, dude.”

 

Isaac shrugs again. “I know. But it's hard to think of them like Mr. Argent and Peter. They're kids. Like us. They're like Allison and Scott.”

 

“No. No. They are _nothing_ like Allison and Scott. Although,” he considers, “she did try to kill you a few times, didn't she?” He shakes his head. “But no. Just no.”

 

Isaac rolls his eyes. “You could go upstairs, you know. Then you wouldn't have to look at them.”

 

Stiles shakes his head. “And miss the look on Mr. Argent and Peter's face when they walk in? No way. Oh, God, I really hope they get here at the same time.”

 

Isaac's eyes widen. “You didn't _tell_ them? Are you _kidding_ me?” He starts looking wildly around, maybe searching for a place to hide.

 

“Heck no. We need genuine reactions and I can't see that over the phone. I just told them it was an emergency. I might have hinted to Chris it was about Allison. If it makes you feel better, just tell yourself it's for investigative science.” He holds up his phone and shakes it with a grin. “I might even take pictures.”

 

“Oh my God, you're going to get us killed, you idiot!”

 

“Please. Peter's not gonna kill us.”

 

“Yeah, but Mr. Argent will!”

 

He...might have a point. But still. Stiles has been thrown against walls, dragged around and slammed into cars, and threatened within an inch of his life by both men at one time or the other. He's _owed_ a chance to rub their lying lyingness in their faces. Besides, Allison won't let her dad kill him. Maybe.

 

He's spared thinking about it any longer by Derek's stupid elevator alarm going off. Seriously, one day Derek's going to realize the only time that thing goes off is when whoever's coming _wants_ it to. He's pretty sure everyone he knows has figured out how to disable it ages ago, and God knows their enemies have always managed to use it to their advantage.

 

He hears the much softer ding of the elevator chime, and then the sound of shoes. More than one pair. He mentally fist pumps at the fortuitous timing. The loft goes deathly quiet as all eyes turn toward the wide, open entrance, and no one moves, much less _breathes_ as far as Stiles can hear. The footsteps get closer and then, between one heartbeat and the next, Mr. Argent and Peter Hale – the elder – step into the room, a careful arms breadth apart.

 

Mr. Argent has his hand on his gun, as per usual. “Stiles, what's going -” He cuts off when he sees the pair on the window seat, and both he and Peter freeze in unison, faces going instantly blank.

 

Nobody says anything, until Peter – _young_ Peter, and _God,_ Stiles is going to have to come up with a way to separate the two of them in his head – leans into Chris. His face is sad, and it occurs to Stiles that he might have held out hope that this was all a mistake.

 

“He smells just like you, Christopher. Except not like -” Chris nods his head like he gets it, like Peter doesn't need to explain, which is frustrating as hell, because Stiles most certainly does _not_ get it. Peter pauses a beat and then adds, “Christopher, you grow up really _well_.”

 

Mr. Argent wordlessly turns on his heel and walks back out the door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have to finish the last chapter of "Dark Side of the Moon" and write my fic for the rarepairs tropefest, so it will probably be a bit before this story gets updated.


	4. Chapter 4

 

There's a beat of silence and then Peter smiles cavalierly at the room. “Well, it's good to know my memory was correct. I _was_ just as good looking as I remember.”

 

He saunters to the kitchen island and grabs an apple, then takes a bite. He looks pointedly at Scott and Stiles and gestures between them with the fruit. “One of you boys want to fill me in? Oh, and Allison, dear, you probably want to go fetch your father before he has an existential crisis.”

 

“So it's true?” Allison has unwrapped herself from Scott so she can stand. She has her arms crossed and her fingers are digging into the flesh of her upper arms. The judgment she's casting is so hard that even Stiles can feel it from his place beside Isaac.

 

“What?” Peter raises an eyebrow. “That these two wide eyed fawns over here are your father and me? Well, you know what they say. Seeing is believing.”

 

“And you two just—what? Lied? Hid this?” Allison's foot is tapping now and Stiles quietly edges away from the epicenter of the situation.

 

“Lie is such an--” Peter swallows his bite and gestures grandiosely-- “ugly word. Now, I can't speak for your father, but I feel certain no one ever asked _me_. And as for hiding...don't blame me for Mystery Inc.'s failure to do basic research. All you ever had to do was pick up a yearbook. And really, Allison, what does a man's past indiscretions have to do with his present?”

 

Stiles is just a tiny bit gratified that Peter's younger self is wearing the same look of horrified confusion Stiles often has when confronted with Peter.

 

“Maybe because my _father_ wanted to kill my _boyfriend_ because he was a _werewolf_?” Allison is speaking through gritted teeth at this point, and straining forward like she's 2.4 seconds away from going for the collapsible crossbow Stiles knows for a fact is in the purse at her feet. Stiles would pay good money to see Allison shoot Peter. Probably a lot of money. So he just backs up a little further (Isaac is no fool, either, and he's already two feet behind Stiles and pressed against the wall) and waits to see how it plays out.

 

“Allison. Please.” Peter's voice is purely condescending as he rolls his eyes. “What did you expect? Your father is a hunter. It's what he was bred to. Killing our kind is in his blood. It's all he's ever been, and it's all he'll ever be. Something our little Scott should take into account dating an Arg -”

 

“Shut up. _Shut up_.” The interruption comes not from Allison, but from the Peter standing in front of Chris, his hands balled into fists and his face contorted with anger. “What's _wrong_ with you? That's not true. You _know_ that's not true.” He looks over his shoulder at Chris, who's silently watching the exchange, face washed white. “It isn't true, Christopher. You're not _him_.”

 

He rounds back on Peter. “You're lying. You know you're lying.”

 

Peter holds up a cautioning finger. “Maybe you should accept I've lived just a little bit longer than -”

 

“No. You're a liar.” He advances on Peter, shaking off Chris' attempts to pull him back. “You know how I know? We always do that thing with our --”

 

For the first time Stiles sees something flicker across current Peter's face other than detached amusement, and just the barest hint of preternatural blue flashes in his eyes before disappearing. It brings younger Peter – Petie? No, no way can Stiles do that – to enough of a halt that Chris catches up with him and snags his hand. Peter grimaces at the younger couple before saying with deliberate lightness, “There are some things you should consider keeping to yourself.”

 

But his younger self seems to have dropped his original line in exchange for another. “Show me your eyes,” he demands. Stiles can catch the tiny waiver in his voice, even if he couldn't clearly see Chris press his face into the side of his neck. It reminds Stiles of the one discontinuity of this whole thing. Peter's shifted eyes are _blue_ , not yellow. And something about that had horrified young Peter almost as much as the fact that he and Mr. Argent were now enemies.

 

Peter's smile is malicious and cold. It only widens as his eyes turn electric blue and young Peter stumbles back into Chris. He leans forward conspiratorially. “I have to say, I like these better.”

 

“What did we _do_?” Peter – baby Peter? Ugh no. Maybe Pete? - breathes it like a prayer, like it can protect him from what his older self will reveal.

 

Peter straightens and flicks an imaginary speck of dust from his t-shirt sleeve. “Don't pretend to stupidity in front of company. It's not attractive. You know perfectly well what makes the change. The murder of an innocent.”

 

“Who?” Pete spits out. “ _Who_?” And Stiles is still absorbing this new piece of information because _holy hell_ Derek has blue eyes, too, when Peter leans back on his elbows against the island, takes another bite of apple, and says carelessly -

 

“Laura. As in Hale.”

 

There's a choking sob before Pete launches himself at Peter, yanked back right before contact by Chris wrapping his arms around his chest. Peter watches the whole thing without moving, seemingly without any concern.

 

“What did you _do_ to us?” Pete is crumpled against Chris' chest when he asks, and Stiles stops being concerned about Allison shooting Peter and starts eying the murderous light in Chris' eyes as he glares at Peter over his head. Peter rolls his eyes but Stiles notices he also doesn't turn his back on him.

 

“Please, child. _I_ didn't do anything to _you_. _We_ killed Laura. Don't start trying to disassociate yourself now. People might think you're a little...mad. Maybe the better question should be _why_ we did it.”

 

“Why? Why did you do it?”

 

“Because Katie killed your family.” The answer comes not from Peter, but from the entrance to the loft. From where Mr. Argent is leaning against the door frame, his arms crossed and his face as closed a book as it always is. “My sister burns your family alive in your house, and it drives you insane.”

 

“Bullshit.” Chris, who has been silent up until this point, spits the denial out vehemently.

 

A faint smile crosses Mr. Argent's face as he pushes himself off the door frame and walks back into the room. “I had a similar response the first time I found out, too, kid.” His eyes flicker to Stiles, who can still remember the look of utter devastation on Mr. Argent's face when he'd flung the accusation at him. He'd almost felt sorry for him. Almost.

 

“Scott.” Mr. Argent is looking past Allison to where Scott is still sitting on the arm of the sofa. “What happened?”

 

Stiles squawks indignantly at the same time Scott shakes his head and points to him. “Stiles found the--”

 

“Is that what happened? Katie killed my family and I went crazy? Is that why Chris --”

 

Mr. Argent barely acknowledges Pete's quiet interruption. “No,” he says shortly before focusing on Stiles with laser like precision. “Tell me exactly what happened.”

 

Stiles shrugs and crosses his arms. “I was driving down the road. Nine-ish. There was a flash of lightening and then they were in the road. Unconscious. Um...they didn't know...you know.”

 

Mr. Argent hums thoughtfully. “A pinpointed phenomenon of that nature...sounds like spell work. Probably an isolated singularity, probably don't have to worry about anything else coming through but you kids should keep a lookout for--”

 

“Dad.”

 

“--anything else odd. We should check meteorology reports for any other dry lightening touch downs, just in case.” He makes a face. “Deaton's still out of town, isn't he?”

 

Scott nods. “I called his cell but he didn't pick up. I left a message though.”

 

Allison tries again. “Dad.”

 

Mr. Argent talks right over her, while Peter looks increasingly amused. “Okay, keep trying. I'd like his opinion on this.” He has his hands on his hips and the look of intense concentration Stiles has come to associate with Mr. Argent working through various scenarios and clues, discarding theories and putting puzzle pieces together. “The Nematon is supposed to be neutralized, but I think we should get eyes on it anyway. The amount of power required for a spell of this nature would have to be incredible... Scott, I think you and I'd better head to the clearing at first light.

 

“Stiles, did you smell anything at the site? Anything funny? Like sulfur or iron or--”  
  


“ _Dad!_ ”

 

Mr. Argent stops and raises both eyebrows. “Allison. Did you have something you wanted to add?”

 

“Are you _seriously_ gonna ignore the elephant in the room?”

 

She looks pointedly at where Chris and Pete are watching Mr. Argent with a kind of dazed expression. Stiles can sympathize. He'd felt similarly the first time he'd really seen Mr. Argent in full on hunting mode.

 

Mr. Argent answers blandly. “Peter and I knew each other as kids. Now, Stiles, before the lightening, was your radio stat-icky? Changing stations without you -”

 

“That looks a little bit more than just _knowing_ each other, Dad, okay?” Chris and Pete's fingers are tangled together and Chris has Pete pulled flush back against him and yeah, Stiles would say that looks more like _fucking_ each other, but hey, what does he know?

 

“It's not important, Allison.” And Stiles would not take any money in the world to be standing between Mr. Argent and the glare Chris is leveling at him now. And then he realizes how eerily similar Chris and Allison's glares actually are, but before he can – in what would likely be a poor decision – point that out, Allison explodes.

 

“Not important? _Not important_ that Peter Hale – he killed Aunt Kate. He turned Scott without consent. He tried to get him to kill his friends. He tried to kill all of _us_. Not to mention Lydia--”

 

“In all fairness,” Peter interrupts smoothly, “you and Stiles did set me on fire.” And just like that, Chris' murderous glare transfers from Mr. Argent to Stiles and Allison. Great.

 

“Shut up,” Allison hisses at Peter before rounding back on her father. “You don't think it's _important_ that you two were--” She can't seem to stomach finishing the sentence. “I think I _deserve_ an explanation. For God's sake, Dad, did Mom even know?”

 

Mr. Argent's face is cold; when he answers, his voice is still incredibly calm, but it's the special kind of calm that scares the shit out of Stiles, and the edge of it is steely and implacable.

 

“Allison, you are my child, and I love you. But that doesn't actually entitle you to my personal life or any of my history. I am not obligated to share them with you. It does not affect you and that's all you need to know.”

 

“Allison, dear --” Peter soft lobes the apple core at the trashcan and gives a small smile when it lands in a clean flush. He leans back against the counter again and crosses his ankles. “What your father is trying to say is that he doesn't want to get into the gory details of the many, many, _many_ night we --”

 

Mr. Argent looks at Peter and says pleasantly, “Shut up or I'll cut your tongue out.”

 

Scott's cell phone rings, a loud blare that makes Isaac jump and Scott sag in relief. “Oh thank God, it's Dr. Deaton. I'm, um, I'm gonna take it out in the hall.” He practically vaults from the sofa, snagging Allison's wrist in the process and pulling her out of the room behind him.

 

In the silence they leave behind, Chris pulls a pack of cigarettes from his jacket, shakes one into his mouth, and lights it with a Zippo he fishes out of his pocket. Stiles gapes while a guttural, exasperated sound slips out of Mr. Argent.

 

“Christ, kid, that's disgusting. Put it out.”

 

Chris stares at Mr. Argent as he takes a long drag. He exhales in a slow, billowous cloud of smoke and smiles.

 

“Fuck you.” Then he sticks the cigarette back between his lips as Pete smirks widely and reaches back to thread his fingers through the hair on the nape of Chris' neck.

 

“Damn,” Isaac breaths beside him, and Stiles kind of has to agree. He'd paid less attention to the younger two in exchange for watching their adult versions, but now, for just a second, he can almost see what fascinates Isaac. The two of them look wild, and angry, with something just barely contained crawling under their skin. Peter...the last time he's seen Peter actually care about anything was when he was trying to kill Kate, and Mr. Argent is so controlled Stiles isn't sure he's ever seen him make a move that wasn't planned ten steps in advance. The similarities in minor mannerisms aside, right now the teens look as foreign from their adult counterparts as night from day.

 

Chris continues to stare down Mr. Argent as he takes another drag and then very deliberately ashes on the floor. Oh man, Derek is gonna _flip_. (Which Stiles hopes he gets to see, because that shit's hilarious.) Peter snorts and then rolls his eyes at Mr. Argent in what Stiles would almost swear is silent commiseration, but obviously isn't, because _Peter_.

 

Mr. Argent is calculating; Stiles can tell by the way his eyes narrow and his hands go back to his hips, but before he can find out about _what_ , Scott comes strolling back into the loft, shoving his cell phone into his pocket. Allison isn't with him.

 

“So, Dr. Deaton says he thinks you're right. It sounds like some kind of spell work.”

 

Mr. Argent closes his eyes and lets out a breath before nodding. “He's on his way back?”

 

Scott grimaces and shakes his head. “No, um, he said it seemed like we were on the right track with what we were doing. That if it's not resolved by the time he and Ms. Morrell get back, he'll take a look at it. But he said we could call if we had questions!” He says that last bit like it's supposed to be some kind of consolation prize, but the look on Mr. Argent's face says he isn't buying it.

 

“When, exactly, will he be back?”

 

“Two weeks?” It's not a question, not really, more of a _please don't kill the messenger_ plea. Peter throws back his head and laughs, while Mr. Argent's eyes narrow and his thumbs start tapping back and forth across the tips of his fingers.

 

“Alright. I'll start looking through our records tonight, see what I can find. Scott, can you skip your morning class so we can take a walk to the Nematon?”

 

“Ahem,” Stiles clears his throat and raises a hand to interrupt. “Quick question. Just a point of order, really. What, ah, exactly, are you planning on doing with them?” He points to Chris and Pete, which is apparently the first time his oh-so-observant best friend notices the cigarette hanging out of Chris' mouth, because he whispers a shrill _You_ smoked _Mr. Argent?!_ Mr. Argent chooses to ignores the outburst.

 

“What do you mean?”

 

“Well,” Stiles claps his hands together, “seeing as how they're not going anywhere at the moment, and it's, you know, _midnight_ , they're gonna have to sleep somewhere, right? Stay somewhere? And not my house!” He finishes quickly. Nope, no way.

 

Isaac shrugs and looks around the loft. “Can't they just stay -”

 

“Please.” Peter just shakes his head at Isaac as he says it, like he's wondering how Isaac managed to make it past natural selection to the age of seventeen. Granted, Peter looks at Isaac like that a lot.

 

Mr. Argent sighs and runs a hand over his face. “They can stay with me.”

 

Now Peter looks at _Mr. Argent_ like he's the idiot. “Again. No. I think I'll spare him the Argent backstab for a few more years. They'll stay with me.”

 

Mr. Argent's snort manages to convey a full length essay on exactly what he thinks of Peter, with annotated bibliography and footnotes. “I wouldn't trust you with my dog, Hale, much less him.”

 

“Fine.” Peter makes a magnanimous gesture with one hand. “You keep yours, and I'll keep mine. Fair?”

 

“No.” Stiles whips his head away from the impending train wreck of the adults toward the teens. Chris is grinding a cigarette butt under his shoe while his jaw juts out mulishly. “We're staying together. You're not separating us.”

 

“Kid.” Mr. Argent stops, grits his teeth together, then starts again. “You're a child. You have no idea what you're talking about. You don't get a vote.”

 

Pete tilts his head as he glares at Mr. Argent. “Don't talk to him like that. And he's right. We're staying together.”

 

“Oh, shut _up_.” Peter's voice manages a perfect blend of exasperation and boredom. “The adults are talking now.”

 

“Christopher?” Pete looks over his shoulder at Chris, who doesn't speak, just nods. Pete grins at him before turning back to the adults waggling his fingers at them. “We're gonna go now.”

 

They're halfway to the door before Stiles realizes they _actually_ think they're going to walk out of Derek's loft on their own. He takes off after them, because no way in hell is any form of Peter Hale walking around his town unsupervised, but Mr. Argent gets there first, and steps directly into their path.

 

“This is ridiculous. I'm not sitting here and arguing with _myself_. Come on, kid, we're going.” He grabs Chris by the shoulder and pushes him toward the door.

 

The second Mr. Argent touches Chris, the atmosphere in the room shifts. Something very like horror flashes across Chris' face, and then Pete is there, knocking Mr. Argent's hand off and shoving him back. He's all teeth and claws and yellow eyes, and a low growl rolls off him as he steps between Chris and Mr. Argent.

 

“Don't _touch_ him.”

 

Stiles catches a glimpse of Peter in the background, one hand wrapped around his forearm while he taps the other against his chin. He slowly shakes his head and mutters something to himself. From the shape of his lips around it, Stiles thinks the word might be “stupid.”

 

In less than five seconds the tension in the room has become unbearable, and Stiles makes the mistake of deciding to break it.

 

“Wow, overreact much? I guess it's true what they say, those murderous tendencies start pretty -”

 

Pain explodes across his face. The room spins and Stiles finds himself on the floor, a thin stream of blood trickling from a nose that he's pretty sure is broken, thanks to the asshole towering over him. Chris' hands are still clenched in fists as he sneers down at Stiles.

 

“I _really_ don't like you.”

 

“Yeah, well, the feelings pretty _mutual_.”

 

Scott must have made some kind of move, because Pete has spun in his direction, lip rolled back to expose fangs, and Peter is standing behind Scott, a tight hand on his shoulder. Mr. Argent crouches down beside Stiles, a glimmer of amusement on his face.

 

“I learned a lot of restraint over the years.” He takes hold of Stiles' hand and stands, pulling him to his feet. As he lets go, Peter sighs and makes a clucking sound.

 

“I hope you pack light, Argent.”

 

“Excuse me?”

 

Peter pats Scott's shoulder before letting him go and settling back against the door frame. “You've apparently forgotten you were just as stubborn then as you are now.”

 

“The point, Hale.”

 

“The point is simple, and honestly rather obvious. I don't trust you with my younger self. You don't trust me with yours. And _they_ refuse to be separated. Therefore, we will all be staying together.”

 

Isaac makes a wheezing sound that Stiles silently echoes.

 

“Now, I know for a fact that your apartment only has three bedrooms, all of which are currently occupied. Mine, on the other hand, has four. Plus, let's be honest, it's nicer. Hence, we'll be staying there.”

 

Mr. Argent works his jaw as he looks at Peter, and then at the two boys, and then back at Peter. Stiles sees the second he gives in, the second his mouth tightens and his shoulders tense.

 

“Fine,” he says tersely. Then, unexpectedly, he rounds on Chris. For the briefest moment, Mr. Argent's face is open and raw, and _angry_. “But let me tell you something, Christopher Argent, you naïve _child_. You concern for _Petie_ \--” it's a curse word, spat out like spoiled food – “is entirely unnecessary. You wanna know what happened so badly? He _leaves you_. He leaves you, and he doesn't look back and he never comes back. So you? You don't own him anything.”

 

His face smooths back out in the wake of the stunned silence he leaves behind, and he strolls over to the island and plucks an apple from the bowl. “Scott, I'll pick you up in the morning. Tell Allison you can stay at the apartment if she wants. Hale, I'm going to get the car. I'll meet you and the boys downstairs.”

 

Stiles darts a look at Peter, only to find him watching Mr. Argent's retreating back with an inscrutable expression.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So we're moving into the adult POVs for the first part next chapter, and also the rating will bump up due to some sexy times between the bbs.


	5. Chapter 5

 

Like most men, Chris Argent has a bucket list. It's more nebulous than most, maybe, consisting mainly of vague ideas of travel that doesn't involve weaponry and strike plans. He and Victoria had actually tried it a couple of times. Walking Hadrian's Wall had been their first venture - until they'd run up against what turned out to be his first encounter with a Darach. Two weeks and five broken ribs later – two his, three Victoria's – the town was safe, and Hadrian's wall left un-trodden.

 

Next had been when Allison was nine. She'd spent three glorious weeks with her Aunt Kate, while Chris and Victoria had set out for a tour of South East Asia. That had lasted two days – two _good_ days, where Victoria had worn that one bikini he really, _really_ liked, and they had spent the better part of one afternoon at a local bar, drunk off their asses and listening to the local legends without any greater motive than hearing a good story. Then there had been bodies, and screaming, and the accidental waking of an ancient demi-god in the form of an Oni. When they'd finally picked up Allison, Kate had just raised one eyebrow at the long row of stitches running across Chris' collar bone.

 

They had given up playing tourist after that.

 

So yes, Chris has a bucket list. But nowhere on it was ever listed driving down the road with Peter Hale in his passenger seat, while two teenagers sullenly glared holes in the back of his head. And it had definitely not included the teeny, tiny, detail of of one of those teenagers being _him_ and the other being the aforementioned sociopath. Of course, the Peter staring haughtily from the back seat ( _He's scared. He's scared and hurt and hiding behind his condescension_ , an annoying voice whispers in the back of his head) is a far cry from the one staring idly out the window beside him, but Chris has never let himself dwell on that before and he's certainly not going to start now.

 

This is just another job. It doesn't matter who is sitting in the backseat. The job is still the same. Figure out what happened. Reverse it. Send them back. Make sure it can't happen again. Job done.

 

The job is still the same.

 

He hazards another glance in the rear view mirror at the kids. Peter is all but sitting in Chris' lap, in defiance of the seat belts he had insisted they wear, and his cheek is resting against Chris' collar bone. Their hands are tangled together and Chris is slowly running his thumb back and forth over Peter's knuckles while he presses _his_ cheek into Peter's hair.

 

He's not sure the two of them have stopped touching each other in the entirety of the time since he first walked into Derek's loft, like they're greedy-hungry-thirsty for every touch they can get. He can see it, can imagine how freeing it must be for them to be able to openly touch each other no matter who is watching. To not have to worry about someone seeing, of word getting back to Gerard, of word getting back to _anyone_. They'll be drunk on it, once they have a minute to think.

 

It's just another complication in a situation that is already a quagmire. There are things about the past that they cannot be allowed to alter.

 

A throat clears beside him, and he finds Peter watching him, one eyebrow raised, and an amused twitch to his lips. It makes him realize his grip on the steering wheel has tightened to the point his fingers ache. He slowly relaxes them as he returns Peter's stare.

 

“Problem, Hale?”

 

  
“Hmm. Just a little worried you're too busy leering at the lovebirds to keep your eyes on the road. Unlike you, I still have things to live for.”

 

Chris refuses to rise to the bait, but he does resolutely turn his attention back to the road, and in another five minutes he's pulling into the parking garage of Peter's building. A stop by his own apartment hadn't been necessary. He's kept an overnight bag in the back of the SUV for years, and he'd been on his way home from a late business meeting when he'd gotten Stiles' text, so his laptop is with him as well.

 

The kids, though...He examines them critically as he walks around to the back of the SUV. While Stiles' clothes would most likely work for Peter, none of the boys are close enough for his younger self. And after Stiles' inability to keep his mouth shut earlier, he's fairly certain Peter will throw a hissy fit before wearing his things. Not to mention Stiles has just as much of a talent for stubbornness. Which means unless a miracle occurs tomorrow, there will have to be a shopping trip. He pops the trunk and tries to keep the grimace off his face. He can hardly wait.

 

The boys are behind him, talking in whispers that Peter can probably easily hear, and that Chris has no interest in trying to. He doesn't try to hide the weapons he extracts from the hollow space below the floorboard, anymore than Peter tries to hide his eye-roll when he sees Chris throw them into his bag.

 

“Really, Argent. We're _allies_ now, remember? Besides, I wouldn't kill you in front of guests. It would be terribly impolite.”

 

He slings the bag over his shoulder with his laptop case, then slams the hatch back down. “You'll forgive me if I don't take your word for it.”

 

Peter shrugs. “Suit yourself. Although I recommend you be careful where you point them. I can't be held responsible for instinctive reactions. Come along, boys. It's late, and we don't want the neighbors to gossip.”

 

The kids' – it's easier to think of them like that, as a couple of strangers, a foreign collective of children simply under his care, than to acknowledge he's staring himself in the face, and the face is _judgmental._ The kids' eyes are ping ponging between the two of them, that same horror on their faces that had been there in the loft. He refuses to feel guilty for that. He refuses to be held to the stupidity of his past. They'll learn soon enough.

 

He jerks his head toward the elevator, then waits until they start moving before closing ranks behind them. Peter falls in beside him, obviously just as unwilling to have Chris at his back as Chris is to have him. It's different when they're working with the packs. Checks and balances, less of the strain of _you killed my sister_ and _your family decimated mine_. Now there's nothing to distract, no danger to outweigh the heaviness of the past, especially when a part of it is walking in front of them.

 

Chris does his best to ignore it, and as far as he can see, Peter doesn't even feel it.

 

The elevator ride is as quiet as the car ride, and mercifully brief, and then they're traipsing down the hall to Peter's door. It's a corner apartment, ostentatious and overly spacious for one person, and Peter's younger self makes an approving noise as they step inside. Chris has been here a couple of times, when the pack has had to meet in the area for some reason, and he walks through the open floor plan to drop his bag and laptop on one portion of the sectional that divides the living room area from the kitchen. The place is all hard lines, and stainless steel and slate floors only minimally softened by large, expensive area rugs. It's not “industrial wreck”, a la Derek's loft, but it is thoroughly modern, and exactly what he would expect of Peter. The one commonality it does share with Derek's is a spiral staircase. Only in Peter's case, it doesn't lead to a hole in the roof, but to the floor with the master bedroom.

 

Peter waves toward two doors on the left wall of the great room. “Children, there.” He then points to a door on the right side, next to what Chris knows is the guest bathroom. “Hunter there.” He raises a disdainful brow at the Chris whose hair is unkempt and too long and still curls at his nape. The one who stares defiantly back while clutching desperately at a younger Peter's hand. “The _real_ one.”

 

And of _course_ that Chris pulls the pack of cigarettes from his pocket and shakes one between his lips. Chris can almost taste it along with him. Can easily remember how the Camels were shield and armor and weapon all in one. A middle finger to Gerard and his teachers and the entire world. Christ. The kid must be scared to death.

 

Peter reaches out, delicately pinches the cigarette between two fingers and pulls it away, ignoring the way the other Peter, lanky and not quite grown past the awkwardness of his limbs, tenses, although Peter is also very careful not to touch the younger Argent.

 

“If you insist on continuing to ruin your lungs, you can do it on the balcony.” He tilts his head toward the glass doors. “But tomorrow. Now is the time for the pitter patter of little feet, making their way to their beds.”

 

When neither boy moves, Peter makes a shooing motion. “Go. Run along and have sweet dreams. Chop chop.”

 

Chris recognizes the mulish set of young Peter's jaw, and the way he stubbornly plants his feet. “Not until we get answers. Tell us how it happened.”

 

Chris interjects immediately. “Not tonight.” Not ever. “You can ask questions tomorrow.” Which they can. He just doesn't have to answer them. “It's late. We have a lot to do.”

 

The two boys look at each other, have an entire conversation with lip twitches and eyebrow quirks which Chris doesn't care to try to interpret. All he cares is that they seem to decide to drop the argument and obey, giving twin glares that he can't remember if he picked up from Peter or if Peter picked up from him, before turning on their heels without another word.

 

Or at least that's all he cares about until he realizes they're both heading toward the same bedroom door. He's between them and their destination before the realization fully crystallizes.

 

“Two of you, two rooms. See how the math works out?”

 

Well, at least the judgmental stare is gone. It's been replaced by the one that clearly states they think he's insane.

 

“Two of you. One in each room.” His tone is firm, exactly the same as when he's telling Allison to study, or no she can't spend the night at Scott's, or any one of a thousand other parental duties he's performed over the years. Except it's not nearly as effective on them as it is on her. What a surprise.

 

“Hypocritical much?” Young Peter curls his lip up, then looks slyly over Chris' shoulder to where he's sure Peter is watching, because of _course_ this kid's the first one to figure out there might be merit in playing the two of them against each other. “I mean, you're not our parents or anything. Don't act like you haven't already done what we're doing.”

 

Which, unfortunately, is somewhat the point. Peter brushes against Chris' shoulder as he passes by him to the boys, and the long suffering sigh he makes sounds dramatically put upon. “As much as it pains me to agree with Argent, I'm afraid I'm going to have to side with him on this one. Four rooms. Four of us. We let you win on the housing arrangements. I suggest you don't push your luck.”

 

It's the first real hint Chris has had that - despite his cavalier attitude - Peter clearly understands the minefield they're navigating. Some of the tension in his shoulders dissipates at the confirmation. He folds his arms over his chest, noticing too late that Peter has done the same. “Goodnight.”

 

The boys stare, betrayed and incredulous. It's Chris who breaks first, a low string of _fuck you, assholes, motherfucking son of a bitch, goddamn piece of motherfucking shit_ tumbling from his lips as he turns around and slams his door open and then kicks it angrily closed behind him. The sound echoes through the loft and there are two more crashes as Chris presumably takes off his shoes and hurls them against a wall.

 

Peter raises an eyebrow at the spectacle. “Where _did_ all that temper go, Argent?”

 

It disappeared into two years of pickling his liver with bottom shelf liquor and shooting wherever Gerard aimed him and fucking his way through twenty-nine states. But that's really none of Peter's business, so instead he answers mildly, “The same place your charm went,” and lets it go at that.

 

Peter's younger self doesn't say anything. Doesn't tantrum or cause a scene like Chris. He just looks between the two of them with cold eyes before walking into his room and quietly shutting the door. The _snick_ that follows says he's locked it against him, even though he has to know how little good that actually does.

 

The past now safely put to bed, Chris settles on one side of the sectional, unpacks his laptop, and props his feet up on the coffee table. Peter disappears at about the time Chris pulls his keys from his pocket, retrieves the thumb drive from the ring, and opens the file folder for the Argent Bestiary and Histories. Chris assumes he's gone to bed, but then he reappears carrying his own laptop, and takes a seat on the other end of the sectional.

 

He catches Chris' look and shrugs. “You have your records. We have ours. There's no use not utilizing every resource we have.”

 

Which...is true. He just hadn't expected Peter to be so willing to put forth the effort. Scratch that. He just hadn't expected Peter to be so _open_ about being willing to put forth the effort. He supposes that shouldn't be a surprise. Peter probably wants the past packed away just as much as he does.

 

For a long time there's nothing but the sound of keys clacking, and the occasional noise he or Peter makes when they read something that peaks their interest. But finally, Peter breaks the silence, his voice deliberately casual and offhand.

 

“You should have known better than to grab him like that.”

 

Chris keeps his eyes focused on his screen. “Yeah. Been awhile. Never been an issue with Allison.”

 

“Hmm. Lucky girl.”

 

Chris doesn't provide a response, and the conversation drops again. After another half hour, Peter gets up and brews a pot of coffee. Chris burns his mouth and doesn't curse, and spends five frustrating minutes trying to decipher the scanned-in pigeon scratch of an ancestor that never mastered decent penmanship.

 

Peter clears his throat. “Out of curiosity, what do you plan to do with them?”

 

When Chris looks over, Peter is staring intently at something on his laptop. “What do you mean?”

 

“If I heard correctly, you plan to take Scott to the Nemeton tomorrow morning. I'll go ahead and assume we're keeping them as much in the dark about recent events as possible, which precludes them tagging along.”

 

Yes, Peter definitely understands the minefield.

 

“And I'm certainly not babysitting them. I have things to do, which do not include coddling half grown children.”

 

“Careful, or I'll start to think you're afraid of being alone with them.”

 

Amusement laces through Peter's voice. “Of course. Because _I'm_ the man who ran away as soon as he saw them.”

 

“Christ, Hale, can we just admit this isn't the most comfortable situation for either of us?”

 

Peter doesn't answer directly. He laces his fingers across his stomach and lets his head fall back against the sofa to stare at the ceiling. “I'd forgotten we were ever that young.”

 

Chris grunts in agreement, even though it's a lie, then scrolls down to the next section of the Argent family diaries. He skims through, even as he mulls over the problem of what to do with the boys. He's passing through his great-great-great grandmother's account of slaying a rougarou when he hits on the obvious solution.

 

“We'll put them in school.”

 

Peter's head jerks up from where he's still contemplating the ceiling. “You're joking.” Chris just stares at him. “Please tell me you're joking.”

 

“Why not? Think about it. Constant supervision for eight hours a day. Keeps them out of our hair and out of the loop. Gives them less time to be nosing around in what they shouldn't. Plus, they _should_ be in school. What if we can't send them back right away?”

 

“On no, Christopher. We're sending them back right away. And you _do_ realize schools actually require paperwork these days. Actual documentation. Also, it's _June._ ”

 

“Don't call me that,” Chris mutters absentmindedly. “I know it's June. They extended the school year an extra month. Death related closures, remember?” It's hard to keep a school open when teachers disappear in droves and students are dropping like flies. “And I installed Gerard as principal there in less than twenty-four hours, and had my wife hired as executive assistant-slash-teacher in about the same time frame. Not to mention this is the same administration that hired a person with absolutely no teaching credentials,who turned out to be a Darach, as well as missed numerous supernatural related events occurring on school grounds. I don't think I'll have a problem getting two new wards enrolled under emergency provisions.”

 

Peter raises his eyebrows as his lips twist in concession. “Point. Fine, you win. But you're listing me as one of their guardians. And you get to break the news to them.”

 

“Fine. But you're babysitting tomorrow while I go with Scott.” Then he breaks down and pushes out the worst part in a rush. “I think we have to buy them clothes.”

 

Peter blinks at him for a minute before throwing back his head and howling with laughter.

 

* * * * * * *

 

Chris lies sprawled across the bed in his boxers, an unlit cigarette pinched between his lips as he idly taps his fingers across his stomach. The murmurs from the main room - too quiet to decipher, but loud enough to filter through - have all died out, although light still shows through the crack underneath his door. The breeze from the window he'd opened before he'd stripped down is almost cool enough to balance out the suffocating pressure that constricts his chest. Almost.

 

He won't grow up to be that. He _won't_. He is more than his father; he is more than his father. He chants it in his head over and over again, pictures Peter's face when he'd said it to him that night in the woods.

 

He's reaching for his lighter – damn the consequences – when there's a scratching at the window. All at once he can breathe again. He tips his head back and grins as the screen falls into the room and Peter shimmies through the window after it. He's barefoot, but still dressed, and he smirks madly back at Chris.

 

“Piece of cake.” He pitches his voice low, barely a whisper, but Chris is used to picking up every variation of Peter's voice. He crawls into bed and flops on his stomach next to Chris. The cigarette is deftly plucked from his lips and tossed away, and then Peter is kissing him, scraping his teeth over his bottom lip and the propping himself up on his elbows. “Glad you left the window open.”

 

Chris tucks his hands behind his head. “Knew you were coming.”

 

Peter presses his lips together, like he does when he's trying not to smile, and imperiously eyes Chris' boxers. “Well then I'm insulted you didn't bother to dress up.”

 

The laughter that escapes is muffled in Chris' elbow, and Peter's nose crinkles in a pleased sort of way at the sound. Chris pulls his face from his arm and wrinkles his nose back, then blows out a heavy breath. “This is so fucked up, Petie. Time travel? _Really_? Who the heck could even do this?”

 

“This is _more_ that fucked up. We don't even know any witches! Talia would have known if any were in the area. She would have _told_ us. _Deaton_ would have told us.” He pauses, then buries his head in his arms. “Christopher, we grow up to be dicks. Good looking dicks, but _dicks_.”

 

Chris pokes at his arm until he raises his head and looks at him again. When he does, Chris looks him straight in the eyes and drags his hand over his heart, making sure he can feel, as well as hear, the steady rhythm of his conviction. “Uh uh. _They_ grow up to be dicks. Not us.”

 

Peter cocks an eyebrow as one corner of his lips turn up, clearly waiting for further explanation.

 

“They fucked up somewhere. Made a mistake. _We_ won't. We find out what happened. And we don't do it. I think...I think that's why we're here. It has to be, right?”

 

Peter chews on his pinky nail for a minute, then side-eyes him, a hint of amusement in the twitch of his mouth. “You do realize you're talking about affecting the lives of all those people. Making some of them not exist at all?”

 

Chris thinks about the brown haired girl who is supposed to be his daughter and shrugs. “Am I supposed to give one fuck about them?”

 

Peter's smile is immediate and blinding. “No.” He lurches over and slams their mouths together; Chris' fingers instinctively knot into his hair as he opens his mouth to Peter's tongue and meets it with his own. He falls into the kiss, like he does in all things Peter; revels in the small sounds Peter makes and the way Peter falls just as hard into him. By the time they part to breathe, Peter is resting halfway on top of him and Chris has a hand burrowed up the back of Peter's shirt. He trails his fingers up and down Peter's spine, aware his grin is doing that stupid dopey, loopy thing he _hates_ but can't seem to control around Peter.

 

Peter's own grin is smug and happy, his eyes just barely tinged yellow as he pants with flushed cheeks. But as Chris watches, his smile slowly dies down. He traces the corners of Chris' mouth. “Chris, do you think he was telling the truth?” The look in his eyes is devastated. Scared. “Do you think I leave you?”

 

Chris' response is immediate and without hesitation. “No.”

 

“His heart rate didn't change.” Peter looks down and then back up at Chris. “But mine--” he waves vaguely at the door, “--that one-- did.”

 

“We should ask him. Or you should ask him.”

 

“Yeah.” Peter goes silent, his fingers still making distracting patterns around Chris' mouth, and when he speaks again, his voice is quiet and self assured. “I wouldn't have left you. I couldn't have.”

 

“I know.” Anymore than he could ever leave Peter.

 

The confirmation seems to satisfy him, and in the blink of an eye, the quirk of Peter's mouth goes from worried to mischievous. He bats his eyelashes at Christopher, then looks around them in blatant, faux surprise.

 

“Christopher, _look_. It's a _bed_. I seem to recall some sort of caveat from you that involved a bed. Now, whatever could it have been?”

 

He rolls his eyes and snorts quietly. “No.”

 

“Not fair, Christopher. You specified bed. I have provided a bed. In a roundabout way.”

 

“A bed with two dickfaces outside who could come in at any time. It's the spirit, not the letter. Besides, we don't have anything.”

 

Peter pushes back up on his elbows, eying the window. “I bet I keep lotion in the bathrooms. That seems like something I would do.”

 

“ _No,_ ” Chris says again. “I wanna take our time. I wanna _hear_ you, Petie. And I don't wanna worry about some stupid assholes ruining it. Especially if the stupid assholes are us.”

 

“You worry too much. It's just some stupid, arbitrary line. We've done everything _else_ in supply closets or out in the woods or in the locker room. And I _know_ you've had sex in way skeevier places. So I don't _care_.”

 

He has, and that's exactly the point. Which Peter _knows._ “Dammit, Petie, you're not just some girl I'm fucking in the backseat of the Chevy, okay?”

 

Peter nuzzles at his neck, drags the tip of his tongue across Chris' collar bone and up the tendon of his neck, drawing a quiet whimper from Chris' throat. “But, Christopher, what if the girl _wants_ to be fucked in the backseat of the Chevy?”

 

Chris laughs and shoves at Peter, makes him fall on his back, then crawls on top of him so he's straddling his hips. He tugs at his t-shirt until Peter obediently raises his arms so he can pull it all the way off. “It's gonna happen, Petie.” He tilts his hips down so Peter can feel just how much he wants it to happen. Not that he doesn't already know. “I just...I just want it to be perfect, okay? Just one time where we do everything right.” Peter deserves so much more than a quick fuck. So much more than Chris has even given anyone else. Peter knows all too well how casually Chris has always treated sex, and Chris has to make sure Peter understands this will _always_ be different.

 

“You're an idiot,” Peter retorts, but his voice is fond, so Chris knows he isn't actually pissed. “You do know I'm a teenage boy, right? I don't _need_ perfection. I need _you_.”

 

Chris kisses the hollow of Peter's throat. “You already have me. Just...let me have this one thing, okay? You know I got that cabin rented out on Molera. Three weeks, and we'll have the whole weekend to do whatever we want.” He won't consider the possibility they won't be out of this nightmare in three weeks. “We don't even _have_ to get out of bed. Stilinski's already told his dad we're all going camping, so we're covered. Thinks we're doing _him_ a favor so he can get a weekend with Claudia. Just three weeks, okay? We can wait that long, yeah?” He shimmies down Peter's body, tonguing one of his nipples as he passes. It makes Peter hiss and jackknife, and Chris reaches up a hand to put two fingers over his lips.

 

“Shhh...don't want Asshole 1&2 busting in, right?” He shifts to Peter's other nipple, scrapes his teeth across it, and feels the sharp sting of Peter's own teeth against the pad of his fingers. Just because he wants to wait to fuck Peter, doesn't mean he's ever gonna wait to _touch_ Peter. He's not a fucking saint, and there's not a whole lot better than the way it feels to get Peter off. That he gets to touch Peter like this--

 

He reaches where Peter's hip bones peek out over the waist of his jeans and dips his head to mouth the divot of his hip. Peter curses and throws his arm over his face. A muffled _I hate you_ makes it through the barrier. Chris draws the tip of his tongue from Peter's hip, along his waistband, to where his jeans fasten.

 

“N'uh uhhhh,” he sing-songs as he flicks the button open and pulls the zipper down. “You could never hate me.” Peter lifts his hips to help Chris tug his pants off, and a pleased sigh floats down.

 

“N'uh uh,” he echoes softly back to Chris. “Could never hate you.”

 

Chris reaches up to hook his fingers in Peter's boxers and pulls them off, too, and when he shimmies back up between his legs, Peter is hard, his foreskin pulled back and his tip purpling. Chris makes a helpless, happy noise. He'd never understood how girls could like giving head, not until the first time he'd tasted Peter, felt the hot weight of him against his tongue, seen the blissed out look on his face as he'd slid between Chris' lips. Chris isn't remotely interested in touching anyone else's dick, but god, does he love sucking Peter's cock.

 

For a minute he just looks, watches breathless as a tiny bead of pre-cum wells up at the tip and starts a slow slide down the head. Then Peter whines out a petulant _Christopher,_ andhe braces a hand on the outside of Peter's thigh, leans in, and licks the drop away. He's not sure which of them makes the louder noise at that, but then they both hiss _shhhh_. Which results in a muffled giggling fit. But then the laughter dies out and Chris runs his tongue up the underside of Peter's dick, traces right along the vein. Peter' throat bobs as he swallows hard and pushes his arm tighter against his mouth, and Chris lets the head of Peter's cock press tight against his lips for half a second before he parts them and takes Peter into his mouth.

 

He's learned a lot about Peter's dick, about what Peter likes. How using so much spit that Chris' face gets sloppy wet makes Peter writhe and twist his hips. How just the hint of teeth on the upstroke causes Peter's cock to jump and spurt pre-cum. How replacing his mouth with a hand so he can wrap his tongue around one of Peter's balls and suck it into his mouth makes Peter's thighs shake, and his back to bow and his hand to paw fitfully at Chris' hair.

 

When Peter gets like this – shivering and on the edge and his throat bared just for Chris - it's hard for Chris to remember why he's not sliding up Peter's body, wrapping his legs around his hips, and pushing in so deep that Peter would be the only thing he would see or feel. Chris _wants_.

 

He buries his face in the crease of Peter's thigh, gulps in deep breaths as his hand keeps a steady rhythm, until he feels like he's not going to come or explode or devour Peter whole. He's pretty sure there's a joke there, the hunter's son wanting to swallow down the wolf, but he just doesn't care. He coaxes Peter's legs further apart, pushes them higher and wider until his cheeks spread wide and the tight pucker of his hole is exposed. Chris sucks in a breath and flexes his hips into the mattress.

 

“I wanna be inside you so much,” he whispers. This is new, too, the talking during moments like this. But it's another thing he's learned about Peter: Peter needs words. _Loves_ them. Gets desperate for them sometimes. And God knows Chris loves giving them to him, even if he sometimes stumbles or has a sudden gut wrenching fear he sounds utterly stupid. And they're always, always true.

 

“Want you so much.” Peter's dick jerks in his hand and Chris wonders if, given the chance, he could ever just _talk_ Peter to climax. The idea is fucking _hot_ , and Chris licks his lips before sucking his thumb into his mouth and getting it spit slick and wet. “You look really good like this.” He twists his wrist as he passes his palm over the tip of Peter's shaft, and he can hear the heave of breath Peter pushes out around his arm.

 

“I think about it all the time.” He pitches his voice low enough that it's almost sub vocal. Too low to be heard by anything but Peter's ears. “What it would be like to push inside you here.” He slides his thumb across Peter's hole, spreading wetness and firm pressure, but not trying to penetrate him. He'd learned that lesson early on, in tandem with the _spit is not the same thing as lube_ one. Peter pushes down into it just the same, his hips thrashing in jerky, uncontrolled spasms.

 

“Think about putting my fingers inside you, stretching you out for me.” _Also_ important, if the magazine he'd filched from the backroom of the _Blue Boutique_ is anything to go by. Chris has jacked off way too many times thinking about the things he'd read in its pages, bottom lip clenched between his teeth and imagining Peter.

 

“Putting my _tongue_ inside you.” Peter makes a choked noise and when Chris looks up, his arm is still flung over his mouth, but he's pushed up on one elbow to watch, and his eyes are glowing yellow.

 

“Fuck, Petie,” Chris breathes, his mouth falling open and his hand picking up speed on Peter's dick. “Fucking look at you. _Fuck_.” He presses his thumb firm against Peter's hole and Peter's hips jerk and his eyes squeeze shut and Chris surges up just in time to get his mouth around Peter's dick before he's arching and coming in warm spurts down Chris' throat.

 

Chris will never get over the fact that he's the one who gets to see Peter like this.

 

When Peter stops shaking, and his cock slips from Chris' mouth, Chris slides up Peter's body and gently pulls the arm from his face. There's a ring of white teeth marks on the soft flesh of his upper arm, where he'd bitten in to keep from screaming, and two sluggishly bleeding puncture wounds, from where Peter hadn't quite been able to keep his canines under control. Chris drops to his stomach beside him, cradles Peter's arm in his palms, and presses his mouth to the mark. He carefully licks the blood away, even as Peter halfheartedly whacks him in the back of the head.

 

“Stop. You'll turn into a vampire. It's _fine_. It's probably already healed.”

 

“You love it,” Chris says confidently.

 

“I do,” Peter confirms. “I really, really do. Know what else I love?” He flips them over, so that he's hovering over Chris.

 

Chris' grin is full of knowing, of anticipation. “What?”

 

Peter slides a hand inside Chris' boxers and palms him. “The way your eyes roll back in your head when you come.”

 

Chris loses his train of thought after that.

 

* * * * * * * * *

 

It's 3AM in the morning, and Chris has fallen asleep. His laptop is still open and his hands are on the keyboard, but his chin is resting on his chest while soft snores fill the room. Peter watches him for a minute, thinks about how vulnerable he is at the moment, how easily he could become prey. Then again, he's an Argent, which means a gun or a knife is never far from hand, and Peter could find a blade in his belly almost as fast as his claws could find Chris' throat.

 

His best bet would be a decapitation from behind.

 

Of course, knowing his luck, the embarrassment that is is younger self would try to kill him if he succeeded.

 

It doesn't stop him from snapping his laptop shut and walking behind the sectional. He puts his hands on either side of Chris' head. Watches the steady thump of his pulse and the way his head jogs with every rise of his chest.

 

Christopher Argent. Nightmare hunter extraordinaire.

 

He steps back and walks to the linen closet situated next to the guest bathroom. There's a blanket mixed in with the sheets and towels and he sets it on the couch next to Chris. He should take the laptop away to save it from a fall, but again, _Argent_. And while he'll heal, being stabbed or shot still _hurts_. Not as much as being burned alive, of course. Twice. But who's counting.

 

On the other hand, his curiosity has always gotten him into trouble. Call it an experiment. A test, if you will. Sometimes Peter doesn't even know what he's trying to prove, but he always knows it's something.

 

He flicks the switch on the end table lamps, first one, and then the other, leaving only the under cabinet lights in the kitchen, and the entryway light, to cast a low glow over the room. He reaches out slowly, carefully, and grips Chris' laptop by the sides. Chris mutters and shifts, but doesn't wake. Peter starts to slide the laptop back across his legs; Chris frowns, his eyes moving behind his lids, and Peter stops. After another minute, Chris settles, and Peter grips the laptop again.

 

“Argent, it's just me. Just putting the laptop up.” He tugs the computer again, and again Chris stirs, his fingers flexing against the keys.

 

Peter's grimace is pained. He should really just kick him and be done with it. Instead, he lets go once more, waits for Chris' breathing to even out, then says softly--

 

“Christopher, it's Petie.” He narrowly avoids stumbling over the nickname. Before tonight, it's been years since the last time he'd even heard it. “Let me take the laptop.” He pulls on the laptop experimentally. Chris' eyebrows draw in, then relax, and Peter slips the laptop the rest of the way off Chris' legs. Chris doesn't stir again. His smirk is smug as he sets the laptop next to his and shakes out the blanket to drape over Chris.

 

Then Chris' voice breaks the silence, his eyes still shut. “You're not him. And I'm not _him._ Don't ever fucking do that again.”

 

Peter's smirk dissolves instantly. Well. Good to know.

 

He wordlessly switches the entryway light off, then makes his way upstairs to his own bedroom.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a reminder that this story goes AU after episode 3 x 07. Which means while many of the events in the rest of the season still occurred, there are some significant differences. For instance, Scott still rises to alpha, and Jennifer is still the Darach. However, Derek actually fulfilled his role as Jennifer's guardian, allowing her to kill Deucalion. Afterwards, she retreated, and she and the pack(s) hold a very uneasy truce. Other differences will become apparent as the story continues.
> 
> Also, if you've read any of my other multi-chap stories, you'll know I spend a lot of time on character development, because that's what I find most interesting. This story is, at heart, about the relationship between Chris and Peter, both now and as teens. At some points action will take a far backseat to one on one interaction between characters.

 

The loft is quiet and dark by the time Derek finally slips back inside, and he's grateful for that. Not because he doesn't want to help with Stiles' “emergency” - which obviously wasn't really an emergency, otherwise Stiles wouldn't have stopped with just one text – but because there's no way he can hide where he's been. Especially not from the pack. And he's sick and tired of the judgmental looks. He'd stopped trying to explain or defend himself months ago. They can't understand.

Most days even he doesn't understand.

The place smells of the usual mix of teenagers, but it's almost overwhelmed by the scent of Chris Argent and Peter. Christ, what did they do, rub up on each individual piece of furniture? It makes him even more glad he'd missed the gathering. His feelings on his uncle are too muddled - conflicting emotions of family and betrayal and the way he used to give he and Laura piggy back rides when they were children. It gives him a headache when he tries to sort it out. And being in the same room with Peter and the man whose sister Peter had murdered (and who had, in turned, murdered nearly all of Derek's family) is never, ever pleasant. He's more than glad it happens only rarely.

There's something off in the smells, though; something not quite... _right_. He's so busy trying to parse it out that he almost misses the bitter, acrid smell of smoke that subtly weaves through everything. Even then he might have overlooked it if it weren't for the fact he stumbles upon a sprinkling of ash near the couch and then spies an actual _cigarette butt_ smashed flat in the middle of the floor.

What the absolute _fuck_?!

He spends the next two hours angrily texting people who don't bother to text him back.

* * * * * * * * *

Stiles walks through his front door, with Isaac right on his heels. Technically he lives with Scott, but Scott is staying with Allison tonight, and Isaac doesn't like to be alone. They have an unofficial arrangement; whenever Scott is gone, Isaac crashes at the Stilinski's. And on the rare nights when both Scott and Stiles are out doing something that doesn't involve Isaac? He stays with the Argents. Which is something so weird Stiles actively avoids thinking about it.

It's almost one in the morning and getting up for school is going to be a _bitch_ , but instead of taking a hard right into his bedroom, he forgoes it in lieu of turning the corner of the hall and reaching up for the string of the attic hatch. The stairs crash down with a godawful screech; thankfully his dad still has another hour left on his shift, so the only person he disturbs is Isaac, who claps his hands over his ears and frowns.

“Stiles?”

“Peter said we could have looked in any yearbook. I wanna look.” He clamors up the attic stairs. “All my dad's old school stuff is up here. We just gotta find it.” The attic is dusty and pitch black; he's half in and half out and feels around blindly for the switch. He finds it with a triumphant _ah_ which switches to a _crap_ when he flips it to “on” and nothing happens. He reverses directions.

“Gotta grab a flashlight.”

Isaac rolls his eyes and tugs him the rest of the way off the stairs. “Where are the boxes?”

“Ah...I think just to the left? Next to the wall?”

Isaac is already halfway up before he looks over his shoulder, with eyes shifted yellow. “Built in flashlight,” he smirks.

“Show off,” Stiles mutters, but with no real resentment or heat.

After a minute of shuffling noises, Isaac calls down. “I think I found them. There's like...three?”

“Yeah, yeah. Just hand them all down. I don't know how he has them sorted out.”

Isaac's feet appear, and then his legs, and then he's passing Stiles a box. Stiles reaches up and grabs it, almost drops it, then jostles it enough that it slides back and bangs him in his (probably) broken nose.

“ _Son of a bitch_.” He does drop the box then, cradling his nose in one hand as he blinks away the sting of tears. “I still can't believe he punched me in the freakin' _face_.”

Isaac looks down at him, unblinking, before sliding another box over the lip of the opening and holding it out. “You deserved it.”

“Are you kidding me? It's not my fault Peter...um, the young one...flipped out on Mr. Argent! How am I at fault for pointing out his obvious ever present tendency to violence? Enough to get _punched?”_ He puts the box on top of the first one and gestures angrily to his nose.

“Stiles.” Isaac's voice is mainly patient, although he thinks he detects a tiny thread of exasperation in it. “Chris was _scared_. Peter was trying to protect him. They were afraid Mr. Argent was gonna _hit_ him.”

“What? What makes you -”

There's a scraping sound as Isaac presumably drags the largest box closer. “He grabbed him too hard. Too fast. They were _scared_.” 

Stiles' eyes narrow as he mulls it over. “Wait, so you think Mr. Argent would -”

Isaac shakes his head vehemently. “No way. Not Mr. Argent. But at some point I bet Mr. Argent was really used to somebody whaling on _him_.”

It only takes a couple of seconds for Stiles to come to the obviously conclusion. “Gerard?”

Isaac shrugs. “Probably. Most likely candidate, anyway.”

“Fuck, man. That actually...” That actually makes a lot of sense, now that it's in his head. “I wouldn't have ever -”

Isaac shrugs again, then hands the last box down to Stiles. “Most people don't.”

He fidgets while Isaac climbs back down and closes up the attic. When he bends to pick up the boxes at Stiles' feet, Stiles puts a hand on his shoulder. “I'm sorry we didn't know. I'm sorry I didn't realize. I should have, right? With my dad and all. I mean I know we weren't friends, but I saw you at practice, and I _should_ have. If I had of, I _swear_ we would have --”

“Oh my _God_.” Isaac huffs and hefts the boxes, knocking Stiles' hand away in the process. “Shut _up_. It's not your fault. How could you have known? Wasn't like I was handing out “Hey, my dad knocks the shit out of me” greeting cards, right?” He ducks into Stiles' room while Stiles trails after him with his one lone box. “I just can tell about Chris because,” he drops his boxes on the bed and lifts one hunched shoulder, “it takes one to know one, right?”

Stiles is digging a box cutter from his desk drawer when Isaac forgoes it altogether and extends one claw through the packing tape. “Besides. Even if you _had_ known, it wouldn't have been your job to fix it. I mean, Jackson's still a douche, but it wasn't even his job.” He looks over at Stiles through a flop of curl that's fallen into his eyes. “You know he saw my dad hit me when we were little, right? Like right after my mom died? He tried to say something. My dad threatened to kill him.”

He shakes his head again. “We're all just _scared,_ Stiles.”

The bed shakes as Stiles plops down across from Isaac and starts haphazardly rummaging through a box. “I don't know, man,” he says doubtfully. “If Peter acted like that, just when he _thought_ Mr. Argent might hurt Chris – I mean he obviously knows about Gerard. I can't imagine him acting like _that_ about Mr. Argent just touching him, but not doing anything about _Gerard_.”

This time Isaac's shoulders shrug, but his head stays bent as he meticulously sorts through a stack of papers he's pulled out. “Chris probably won't let him.”

“Chris wouldn't _let_ him? You're kidding, right?”

Isaac makes an aggravated noise in the back of his throat and sits up. “Stiles – Look, okay? You've never-- And I'm _glad,_ okay? Nobody should have to --” He shakes his head and speaks intently. “But it means you don't get it, okay? You don't get...” He bangs on the side of his head with his palm. “... _this_. You can't understand what it's like. You don't...Like, you know all that therapy Ms. McCall and Mr. Argent keep making me go to? It's still hard for me to put the _words_.

“I _loved_ my dad, okay? I loved him before he started beating the shit out of me, and I still loved him _after_. And I wanted him to love _me_. More than anything. It didn't matter that I knew he shouldn't be hitting me. I just kept wanting to figure out how I could fix it. What I could do to fix whatever I'd done that made him do that. I _loved_ him. He locked me in a _freezer._ He was an abusive _asshole._ And if I'd have been there the night he was killed, I'd have done anything to save him. He was my _father_. So yes, Chris probably won't let Peter do anything.”

“Still.” Stiles shoves the box he's just plundered off the edge of the bed and grabs the second one. “Why would Peter even listen?”

“You're mixing him up with our Peter,” is Isaac's enigmatic reply. “And assuming he knows exactly _how_ bad. I mean, Erica knew some of the stuff happening with my dad, but I never told her the worst. Oh hey!” He reaches into his box and pulls out a stack of yearbooks. “Found 'em.”

They scramble to clear the boxes and papers off the bed, then shuffle up to slump against the headboard, the books between them. Stiles starts with his dad's senior year. Takes a minute to snicker over his father's spiked hair and stiff, uncomfortable face. Runs his fingers wistfully over his mother's photo. He scans through the rest of the senior class, but doesn't find Chris or Peter. It takes flipping back to the juniors to hit pay dirt.

Peter looks smug and condescending. No surprise there. Chris...looks like he's thinking about stealing something. Or maybe hijacking a car. Stiles squints and peers at the photo.

“Isaac,” he says slowly, “is he wearing _eyeliner_?”

Isaac chokes a little; Stiles soothingly pats his back as he pockets this bit of information to use as blackmail _forever,_ and turns to the front of the book. “Okay, let's see what's here.” He finds a candid on page four. Chris Argent is sitting at a lunch room table, his arm slung over a bored looking girl wearing his Letterman jacket. He's not talking to her. Not even _looking_ at her. He's leaning over the table to talk to Peter, their heads bent low and almost touching and wide grins stretching across their faces.

“Christ.” It's...It's _disturbing_ is what it is. Even after seeing the two of them earlier that night. _Unnatural_.

Isaac reaches over his arm and turns another page. And another. It's three more pages before they pop up again. Peter is sitting in a desk behind Chris, a devious look on his face as he balances a tiny paper football on the surface and prepares to thump it toward the back of Chris' head. Chris, for his part, is staring up at the ceiling, a pencil laced in his fingers and caught in the motion of tapping idly on the desk. He has an ace bandage wrapped around one wrist.

There's another photo, and then another. All together they find six photos of the two of them, and none with just one or the other. There's almost always a girl with Chris. Sometimes Peter, too, but not as often. Stiles wonders how exactly the girls fit in. Wonders how long ago the two of them started up their... _thing_. At some point Isaac abandons him to start going through the other yearbooks, poking Stiles whenever he finds them in a picture, and poking him _especially_ hard when he gets to their freshman year.

“Stiles, _look_.” Isaac is making a sound that's caught between a snicker and a giggle and Stiles is hard pressed not to join him when he sees Chris and Peter in all their ninth grade glory. Chris' hair hasn't been cropped close yet. Curls threaten to spring free and both of their faces are still round with the traces of baby fat. Peter looks like he's trying his best to appear bored but not doing a good job of it, and the corners of Chris' lips curl up mischievously.

 

 

 

“They're so young,” Isaac breathes. “Even younger than us. It's all kind of sad, don't you think?” Stiles' hum is noncommittal as he slides the book back to Isaac and returns to his own, still perched in his lap. He's been slower than Isaac, getting sidetracked by the pictures of his mom and dad sprinkled here and there. But he turns the page and finds his seventh photo.

They're at a bonfire this time, with a group of boys wearing Letterman jackets standing in clumps and clutching paper plates loaded with hotdogs and chips. When he sees who's laughing with Peter and Chris, he curses.

“Holy fuck, that's my dad!”

“What?” Isaac squints at the photo.

Stiles taps at the caption, where his father's name is clearly listed beside Peter and Chris'. “My _dad_. What the hell?” Maybe it was stupid of him, but Beacon Hills' High is pretty big. Even he doesn't know everyone that attends, and he makes it his business to know. He just hadn't thought -

He accidentally wrinkles the pages as he tears through them to get to the sports' section. The varsity basketball team is easy to find and it provides solid confirmation. His dad, Chris Argent, and Peter Hale are grinning out at the camera in the team photo (well, his dad grins, Chris glares, and Peter smirks. But whatever.)

“They were all on the basketball team,” he breathes. “ _Dammit,_ Dad!”

“And what exactly have I done that warrants you cursing at me? And why the hell are you up at this hour on a school night?”

Stiles' head snaps toward the door. His dad is framed in it, in uniform and weary eyed, his hands resting on his hips as he examines them (and the mess surrounding them) critically. “Do I even want to know?” He nods to Isaac. “Hello, son.”

“Hi, Sheriff Stilinski. Is it okay if I crash here tonight?” He still asks, every time, even though he knows he's welcome and the answer is always the same.

“Of course. Feel free to make Stiles sleep on the sofa if he starts snoring.”

Stiles can't stand it anymore. He bursts into the conversation, pointing an accusing finger at the yearbook. “You went to school with Mr. Argent and Peter!”

His dad looks at him for a second before raising an eyebrow. “I went to school with Argent and Hale,” he repeats back evenly, _obviously_ not understanding the seriousness of the accusation.

“You never told me you went to school with them! That they knew each other!” The _how could you_ is very clear in his voice.

“Was I supposed to?”

“ _Yes!”_ Stiles screeches it out. “How could you not think that was _important information?!_ ”

His father shrugs maddeningly. “Sorry, kiddo. Didn't occur to me none of you knew. The Hales have been here for years. Well mainly. And the Argents on and off. Figured you knew that with how nosy you are.” The last bit is said with a wry smile.

“Oh my _God_.” Stiles' hands are getting out of his control, as they often do at times like this, and Isaac ducks to keep from getting hit by his flailing. “I can't believe you've been sitting on this! All of you. All of you! Uncle Psychopath and Daddy Wolfsbane grow up together and you don't think to mention it? Even after the whole 'oh yeah by the way Kate was a hunter and burned a whole bunch of werewolves to death' revelation? Really? _Really?_ It didn't occur to you to tell me? That you were _friends_?”

“First off.” The sheriff holds up a hand. “Take a deep breath and calm down.”

Stiles glares at him, lips pressed together and eyes wide, and his father snorts.

“Second off, I _knew_ them. I wouldn't exactly say we were friends. Not sure the two of them actually had friends. They had each other.” He rolls his eyes at Stiles' look. “Not like that.”

 _No, Dad,_ Stiles thinks. _It was exactly like that._

His father continues. “They were popular. Really popular. Everybody wanted to be around 'em. But none of us were really their friends. Not really. They didn't have room for anybody besides each other. It was always the Chris and Peter show. Was like that from almost as soon as Argent moved to town.” The Sheriff laughs. “Never seen so many disgruntled girlfriends in my life.”

“What happened?” Isaac is staring at Stiles' dad earnestly, like he's expecting _storytime_. “How did they go from this--” He plucks the yearbook from Stiles' lap and holds it up. “--to, you know, trying to kill each other? They don't act like they ever knew each other.”

Stiles idly wonders why neither of them are mentioning the fact Peter and Mr. Argent were more than just friends. He certainly doesn't feel any need to protect their secret, even if his dad not knowing confirms his suspicions that it definitely _was_ a secret thing.

“Well, it seems kind of obvious. Hunter. Werewolf. Knowing what I know now,” he gives Stiles and Isaac a sour look, “I'm kind of surprised they were ever friends. I just assumed life happened.”

“ _Dad_.”

“I. Don't. Know.” His father enunciates each word clearly. With irritation. “The Hales moved away when the year after I graduated. The Argents left a few months after. The Hales came back three or four years later. The Argents didn't. I didn't see Chris again until after the fire. And then not again until he moved back with Allison and Victoria. Next thing I know bodies start piling up, Peter goes missing from a coma ward, and goes on a murder spree. Which, by the way, I'm not allowed to arrest him for. Because Derek and the Argents destroyed all the evidence. So, if you're looking for details, you're talking to the wrong person. Not friends, remember?”

“But you're friends with Mr. Argent _now!_ ” Which is true. Being tied up in a root cellar together for a couple days is apparently a bonding experience. His dad and Ms. McCall and Mr. Argent all have this weekly coffee thing that he's pretty sure exists just to keep Stiles and Scott and Allison from actually getting away with anything.

“Yeah, that never actually comes up in conversation. Sorry.” He pauses and a wary, weary look creeps over his face. “Why exactly are you looking for details at 2 AM? What's happened?”

Stiles laughs nervously and exchanges glances with Isaac. But it's not like his dad isn't going to find out anyway, not unless they find a way to get rid of Pete and Chris tomorrow. And with the way their luck runs...

He clears his throat. “Okay, so don't freak out, but a funny thing happened on the way to Scott's.”

* * * * * * * *

Peter has been back in his room for hours by the time Chris sleepily stumbles his way out of his bedroom, scratching at his stomach and yawning. His clothes are wrinkled, but still pretty wearable. Nothing stinks, except maybe his pits, and he needs a shower anyway.

Asshole #1 (the Peter version) is behind the kitchen island and only looks up briefly before returning to chopping up peaches and chucking them in a blender. Chris pads over and slides onto a tall wooden stool with a low back. #1 looks up again with a put upon expression.

“I suppose I'm going to have to feed you, aren't I?”

Chris reaches out and snags a slice of peach and pops it in his mouth. He chews noisily before asking, “Where's the other one?”

“I killed him,” Peter deadpans. “Stuffed his body down the laundry shoot.”

Chris chokes on his mouthful, and Peter the Consummate Asshole rolls his eyes. “Unbunch your panties. He's running an errand. I'm babysitting.”

“I thought he was afraid to leave me alone with you.”

Peter waves his concern away. “Please. It just makes Argent feel good to pitch a fit. As much as he may want to believe I'm just two seconds away from murder at any given time, even he has to concede killing you is an improbable goal. What with my adorable and idiotic younger self quite prepared to kill anyone who harms you. It's touching, really. Practically _vomitous_.”

Chris doesn't bother reminding Peter his personal snit had been just as big. Instead he traces a finger over the granite and clears his throat. “Did she really do it?”

Peter's eyebrows draw together. “Hmm?”

“Katie,” he says impatiently. “Did she really do what he said?”

“Ah.” Peter dumps the rest of the fruit into the blender, covers it, and turns it noisily on for several minutes. He pours a glass for himself and slides one over to Chris before continuing, a malicious bend to his mouth.

“Yes. Your _darling_ baby sister burned my family alive. Talia, Nathan, Julie, Elizabeth. _Dead_. And a score of children you never met. Some of them human. And I had to watch them die screaming.” His voice is mild, _light_ even, but there's something behind his eyes that is terrifying. Chris is glad he put his knives back on before leaving his room. “Great girl, your sister. Really top notch.”

“Katie _liked_ you, though,” Chris whispers, eyes intent on the counter top. His chest feels tight; he wants to be anywhere but here, wants to crawl into bed and press against _his_ Peter's warm body and pretend all of this was a nightmare. But he has to know.

“That was before she found out what we were. _Monsters_ ,” Peter says viciously. “Your family didn't care that mine had never crossed the line. All they saw were abominations. Monsters.” he repeats. “And we were, I suppose, at least by the strictest definitions. But not _nearly_ as big of monsters as you and yours.”

Chris' head shoots up. “It wasn't me.” He shakes his head in denial. “It was _not_ me.” It couldn't have been. He doesn't care _what_ happened.

Peter hums and tilts his head to the side. “No, you're right. It wasn't you. You just preferred to put your head in the sand and pretend not to see what your father was do-”

He breaks off as his face goes blank and his nostrils flare. He inhales deeply. There's a tick in his jaw before he hisses, “I should have put _bars_ on the windows.”

Blood rushes to Chris' cheeks, momentarily driving away his horror about Katie, but he meets Peter's eyes defiantly. “Or you could have just not been a dick and let us share a room. What'd you think we would do when you said we couldn't? Even if you hate him now, you have to remember.”

“Of course we remember,” Peter snaps. “Why do you think we put you in separate rooms?” Peter takes another deep breath through his nose, closing his eyes and openly scenting the air. When he reopens them, his shoulders relax. “But of course, we can always count on you to be honorable, can't we, Christopher? Still _so_ determined to be the romantic cliché.”

Chris' cheeks heat further. “Don't call me that. You don't get to call me that. Only Peter can call me tha-” He stops abruptly when he realizes how circular and ridiculous that argument is. “Don't call me that. And it's not a big deal,” he mumbles. “Just because I want to wait a couple more weeks. Peter understands.”

The older man snorts. “Let me assure you, he most certainly did _not_ understand.” Chris is about to ask for further clarification when Peter pauses with his glass halfway to his mouth. “A couple of weeks? Where exactly, pray tell, are you in the timeline?”

It takes Chris longer than it should to figure out what he's asking. What can he say – it's _early_. “Um, September?”

“Ah. Senior year then.” A ghost of something passes over Peter's face too fast for Chris to catch it. “You're talking about the cabin.”

Chris sits up excitedly. “Yeah. You totally remember it, right?” He'd _known_ it was gonna be awesome. He's gonna have to corner Asshole #2 and get some details.

“Oh yes.” But the way Peter's smile twists is anything but comforting and a ball of ice gathers in Chris' gut. “I remember the cabin.”

Before he can question him, find out what the hell that look _means_ , his Peter comes shuffling from his room, bleary eyed and only wearing boxer. He smiles sleepily at Chris and scrubs a hand through his hair, while the man he will _not_ become straightens and makes a face.

“Oh for the love of God, put some clothes on,” the older Peter orders. Petie just shrugs and makes his way toward Chris.

“They're dirty. And I need a shower.” He nuzzles into Chris' neck, inhaling deep. It reminds Chris that whatever the hell it was that screwed up these adults, it will never be what happens to them. He and Peter – they're stronger than that.

When he's satisfied with Chris' scent, Peter traipses around the island, opens the refrigerator, and starts digging through its contents. The muscles in his back flex as he leans inside the door; Chris tugs his bottom lip between his teeth and ogles the way his boxers stretch across his ass. It's _nice_. He rarely gets to see Petie like this – sleepy eyed and first thing in the morning. He _likes_ it. Wants _more_ of it.

So of course Asshole has to ruin it. He raises an eyebrow haughtily at Petie and makes an aggravated sound.

“It's considered polite in almost every society to ask permission before pilfering someone's things.”

Petie pulls a bottle of orange juice out, uncaps it, and takes a long swig. “Technically, they're mine, too. So.” He passes the bottle to Chris, who takes a drink, then passes it back. “Su casa es mi casa. Literally.”

“ _Not_ literally. You have a long way to go, _child_ , before you can claim that. Keep your grubby hands to yourself.” He looks between the two of them and his irritation disappears, morphing to something that makes Chris instantly wary. “Eat up, and then you'll need to take showers.” He holds up a cautioning finger. “ _Separate_ showers. We're supposed to be meeting Argent soon.”

“Where? Why?”

He grins widely. “The mall. We're going shopping. I recall just how much you _adore_ that, Christopher.”

Petie perks up beside him, because while Chris most assuredly does _not_ like shopping, at least when it doesn't involve a five finger discount or the fastest he can grab clothes and go, Peter _does_. Particularly likes trying to force Chris into things that don't offend Peter's fashion sense. He's never succeeded, but now there's _two_ of them.

He eyes the asshole across the island. “Why are we going shopping?”

“Because, as my younger self has so succinctly demonstrated, you need clothes.” Then he raises his eyebrows, smiles smugly, and drops the other shoe. “Besides, we can't have you go to school wearing _that,_ now can we? What _would_ the community think?”

* * * * * * * * * * *

The blare of the elevator alarm jerks Derek awake from where he'd passed out on the couch, phone clutched to his chest. He's barely found his feet by the time Chris Argent comes barging in, Scott hot on his heels and making all kinds of panicked hand gestures behind his back. Chris doesn't bother to say hello.

“ _Where is she?_ ”

Derek eyes him warily, glances over his shoulder to where Scott is shaking his head back and forth rapidly, drawing his finger over his neck several times as he goes.

“Who?” He knows who. Of course he knows who.

“That bitch you're still fucking.”

He's rarely seen Chris Argent mad. Disdainful, sure. And sad, sometimes, when he thinks no one is looking. But anger...Chris is usually too controlled for that. Rarely even _curses_. Now, though, the fury in his eyes makes Derek take a cautious step back. Scott's no help, eyes flicking between the two of them like he doesn't know which way he should leap first.

“Why are you looking for her? She hasn't done anything.”

Chris snarls, speaking through gritted teeth. “The nemeton has been used. Scott and I were there this morning. It's covered in _blood_.”

“ _Human_ blood?”

“What do you think, Derek? Do you think I'm looking for her just for _fun_?”

Scott pipes up, probably trying to diffuse the tension. “It's not all human. Right, Mr. Argent?”

“It's enough human. Tell me where she is, Derek.”

He shakes his head. “No. This isn't her. She wouldn't do it. She's promised.” He can hear the doubt in his own voice, though, and he knows Chris can, too.

“You sure about that, Derek? Really sure? Even if she thought her _cause_ was vital enough? She always thinks she's fighting the good fight, doesn't she?”

She would. Derek knows that. But she would have _told_ him. Maybe. _Christ_. “It isn't her,” he says again, more firmly this time. “Every time something happens, somebody trips and falls or the milk goes sour, you all come here. And _every time_ you're wrong. When is it going to be enough for all of you? She gave us back Boyd and Erica!” Even though they'd promptly turned their backs on Beacon Hills and anything having to do with it. They were alive, and that's what matters. At least that's what he tells himself. “She offered to try to bring your _wife_ back. How much more until you get _she's done with Beacon Hills?_ ”

“Oh I don't know, Derek. Almost being suffocated in a root cellar tends to leave one with certain prejudices. And dead things should stay dead. Point in case, your uncle.”

“The only people who say that are people who haven't lost enough.” It's not fair, he knows that. Chris has lost more than his share to even out the Hale family loses. But he doesn't need the reminder that they're all still waiting for the other shoe to drop.

“Then why is she still here? Why didn't she slink away when she had the chance? Why come back? Sink her claws right back into you? I'd think you'd be done with that after my sister.”

Derek keeps still. Barely. “You dealt with your father yet, Chris? No? I didn't think so. How about you come back pointing fingers when you have. This wasn't _her_.”

It's scary, almost, watching the way Chris packs his anger up, piece by piece. In seconds, that bland, amused expression is back on his face. He smiles, slow and easy, tucks his hands into his jacket pockets. “You tell Jennifer she fixes this, puts things _back,_ or I'll cut her head off myself. And I don't particularly care if you get in the way.”

He turns on his heel and walks out, leaving Scott behind.

Scott shakes his head. “Sorry, man. I tried to talk him into letting me come alone. I thought for a minute there he was gonna shoot you or something. And with the mood Allison's in, I don't think she'd support me stopping him this time.”

“What the hell was that even about? Does this have to do with Stiles' emergency? The cigarette butt on my floor? Thanks for not texting me back, by the way.”

Scott's laugh is uncomfortable and borderline nervous. At times like this it's hard to remember he's an alpha, and a _good_ one – far better than Derek had ever thought about being. He just looks too much like the teen he actually is on most days. “Scott?”

“You didn't show up last night, okay? So you missed it. You're kind of lucky you missed it. It was traumatic.”

“Scott.”

“Okay, okay. Somebody disrupted the...um, I think Mr. Argent called it the temporal stream? With a spell. A really strong one. And Mr. Argent didn't think it was the nemeton but now it apparently is? Which of course...Jennifer. And he's not really thinking rationally right now. Not that I blame him. I mean, _I_ wouldn't be thinking very rational now.”

“ _Scott_.” He's starting to sound like Stiles, which is way too much babbling for Derek to deal with. “What happened when the temporal whatever was messed with? Why is Chris trigger happy right now?”

“We don't really know what the intended purpose was yet. You should ask Jennifer. Okay, yes, I know you don't want to think it was her but just...maybe she has some ideas. At least that. So, we don't know why. But...” he takes a deep breath. “Okay. It accidentally dumped Mr. Argent and Peter in front of Stiles' jeep.”

He lifts an eyebrow. “It accidentally...dumped Chris and Peter...”

“A different Chris and Peter. Well, not different. No, definitely different. But not different people. Just _younger_. They're teenagers. The spell accidentally brought them forward to _now._ ”

Derek blinks. “What?”

“Exactly. And it gets _worse_. Derek, Mr. Argent and Peter used to _date_.”

Scott's phone beeps before Derek can even think of a response. “Crap, that's Mr. Argent. I gotta go. Just _ask_ her, okay?”

Then he's out the door, too, leaving Derek to try to figure out what the hell just happened.

* * * * * * * * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> While it's perfectly fine not to like Jennifer, to question her motives and/or possible guilt, or even point out the unhealthy nature of she and Derek's relationship (and lbh, it's probably not healthy), I would really, _really_ appreciate it if you would refrain from calling her a bitch or a whore or anything like that in the comments. Thanks, you guys are awesome!


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Posting schedule for the next couple months (U.S. dating format!):
> 
> 12/7/2013  
> 1/4/2014 (double length chapter to make up for Christmas break!)  
> 1/18/2014

 

Scott shows up right as the bell rings for third period. A good time, because she's going crazy running circles around this thing in her head. Convenient, because it's a science lab, so they can actually talk. He slides in beside her and immediately asks, “You doing okay?”

“Well,” she smiles a little. “I haven't stabbed anyone, so I guess not _too_ bad.”

He quirks a grin back, but doesn't let her weasel out of it. “No, really, how are you doing?”

She shrugs as she reaches for the beaker and a dropper. “Still trying to wrap my head around it. Still can't.” Neither of them had gotten much sleep the night before. Allison because she'd spent most of it pacing around the apartment, occasionally turning to Scott to rant about her family's propensity for hiding things from her and lying to her. Scott because he's a good boyfriend and offers himself as the buffer for her anger. For awhile that's all it is, him nodding as she talks, but eventually, because he's Scott, he starts trying to help. Starts trying to offer reasons for her father's actions.

Usually it's something she appreciates about him - his propensity to want to think the best about others, his levelheadedness and slow fuse. It makes a good balance for her, for much the same reason she suspects her father made a good balance for her mother. But last night...last night it had just made her angry. She didn't want to _understand._ She just wanted to rage. It's not exactly fair to her father. She knows he's made an effort in the last year to overcome Gerard's conditioning and been far more honest with her than his father was with him, and she knows she's told him her fair share of lies, but right now, she just doesn't care.

She can't even...she can't even pretend it's just some friends with benefits thing, or a flash in the pan fling. Because even _that_ would be better than...than what she sees when she looks at the boys who had once been her father and Peter. They look at each other like they're the whole world. They look at each other the way she and Scott do.

After she'd snapped at Scott one too many times to ignore, he'd studied her for a long minute before standing and taking her hand and leading her back to her bedroom. There he'd spent the next few hours distracting her in a far, far more effective way. It had been enough so that she could catch an hour's sleep, nestled in Scott's arms. Enough so that the most brittle edge of her anger had been dulled.

It had not been enough to keep her from slipping away as soon as the dawn had edged out the night, kissing Scott goodbye with a murmured explanation. Not enough to keep her from spending the hours before school at the firing range her family still maintains. She's not even sure whose face she really pictures in place of the target's, whether it's her father, or Peter, or Gerard, or sometimes, Aunt Kate.

She shakes herself out of her thoughts as Scott pulls his backpack into his lap and unzips it, talking as he goes. “Yeah, it's weird. Like, _really_ weird. Did you even know your dad was into guys?”

“Not helping, sweetie,” she replies under her breath.

“Sorry.” He squinches his nose and makes a face. “This better?” He pulls a bag of skittles from his backpack and passes it over, and she can't help but smile at him.

“Much. How about you? How'd it go?”

He mimics her shrug from earlier. “Your dad threatened to kill Derek.”

She pops a handful of skittles in her mouth and chews thoughtfully. “Must be a Tuesday.”

He snickers behind his hand but sobers quickly. “I think he was pretty serious this time, though. He's doing that super calm thing, you know? He thinks Jennifer is responsible.”

“So the Nemeton...”

“Has been used. Somehow. Even though Deaton sealed the trunk off. There's _blood_.”

Allison flips her pencil between her knuckles as she thinks. “What did Derek say?”

“He says it isn't her. He says she's keeping her end of the deal.”

“Of course he did. I mean, he's sleeping with her.” She shakes her head. “His judgment isn't the best. What do you think?”

Scott measures five drops into the beaker and watches the solution slowly swirl to blue. “Well, he has a point. We always think it's her lately. And it never is. She got what she wanted. Derek helped her kill Deucalion, she let our parents go, and then she left. She's kept up her end of the deal.”

“But she came back.”

“Okay, yeah. But for Derek.”

Allison side eyes him. “That's suspicious motive right there.”

Scott fights not to smirk at that, but loses the battle. “Still. I'm just saying we don't have enough information to run around killing people. Everybody always wants to jump right to the killing part.”

She sighs because he's right. “So what then?”

“Derek's gonna talk to her. See what she says. Hopefully your dad will be too busy with...um...them – we really need to figure out what to call them, it's confusing – to purposely go try to kill her first.”

“Maybe.” Her bottom lip is raw from being chewed on. “I don't get it, you know?” Easier to cycle back to Derek than ponder her father. “What's Derek thinking? She killed so many people. She _used_ him. And he's still...” She trails off.

“I know.” Scott looks uncomfortable, like he sometimes gets when he really _can't_ think of a defense for someone. “But then again, look at Lydia and Aiden. Or Ethan and Danny. Right?”

She sprinkles powder across the litmus paper without commenting, and he continues. “Speaking of, did you get a chance to fill them in?”

“Um, sort of. Ethan and Danny. But Lydia and Aiden were gone overnight for that math competition.”

“ _Aiden_ went to the math competition?” They've all come a long way toward accepting the fact the twins are now more or less part of Scott's pack, but even Scott would never pretend academics would ever be Aiden's forte.

A corner of Allison's mouth turns up. “Yeah. Lydia somehow convinced Finstock that Aiden was her good luck charm. _Necessary_ for her to pull out a win.”

“Like Lydia would ever need a good luck charm to win anything.”

She shrugs. “Like Lydia would pass over a chance to have an overnight with Aiden without a chaperone.”

“But Coach is chaper -” He trails off. “Okay, I see your point.”

“Anyway, it's not exactly something I can text to her.” Peter and Lydia have yet to come to terms with each other, and Lydia tends to make herself scarce any time his presence is needed. As soon as the whole Alpha/Darach debacle is over, she shows up at Allison's door demanding to be trained. _I'm not going to be stuck waiting for someone to rescue me again_ , she says by way of explanation. Allison doesn't bother to point out that there's still no guarantee, mainly because she's just relieved Lydia had come to her on her own, instead of Allison having to find someway to cajole her into it. Now all of them have at least some chance of fighting their way out of a bad situation.

“They'll be back this afternoon. I made her promise to come straight to the apartment. So she at least knows something is up.”

“Okay, good.” They work in silence for awhile, Scott's leg resting comfortably – and _comfortingly_ \- against her own. Toward the end of the period, though, he starts looking at her from the corner of his eye, and his face takes on his _please don't kill me_ expression. Finally she puts her pen down and pushes the worksheet back. 

“What is it?”

He grimaces. “Your dad said he was gonna talk to you tonight. But I think you should have more time.”

“More time for what?”

“To prepare? So you two don't fight?”

“About _what_?” And please, she and her father _are_ going to fight. As soon as she gets him to drop his holier than thou routine.

“Honestly I don't know what they're thinking. At all. But...your dad and Peter are putting them in school tomorrow. We're supposed to _babysit_ them.”

* * * * * * *

Derek finds Jennifer at the little cafe she likes to frequent. She's sitting on the patio, out in the sun, and she's wearing a wide brim hat and sunglasses and looks a little something like Audrey Hepburn in _Breakfast at Tiffany's_. She smiles when she sees him.

“Derek. This is a surprise. It usually takes you at least two days of self castigation and internalized hatred before I see you again.”

He jerks his thumb over his shoulder. “I could go.”

She smiles again, this time wide and genuine, and pulls off her sunglasses. “No, I'm glad you're here. Stay.”

He pulls out a chair, metal grating as it drags over the brick, and sits down across from her. She holds up a hand, waits for a server to walk over, and orders him a green tea frappe. He thinks about protesting, but it's what he would have ordered for himself so he lets it go. When the server leaves, he looks at her with one eyebrow raised.

“What do you even do for money?” In all the time since she's been back, she's never told him, and he's never thought to ask.

She waves a hand carelessly. “Oh, a little of this, a little of that. You'd be surprised how many people still want to curse their neighbor's harvest.” His eyebrows draw together and she rolls her eyes. “That was a joke, Derek. Now, to what do I owe the pleasure.”

Later, he'll realize she hadn't answered him, but for now he settles moodily back in his chair. “Did you do it?”

This time her eyeroll expresses a wide range of tired exasperation. “What this time? Somebody break a nail? Stub a toe? No, wait, let me guess: Allison is having puppies instead of a baby.”

He crosses his arms and looks at her, his expression hard and implacable. “You _know_ what.” It's a shot in the dark, but despite not stepping foot in the town, Jennifer always seems to know exactly what is happening in Beacon Hills.

“Ah.” She takes a bite of her cookie, then smiles and thanks the server when he brings the frappe. She slides it across to Derek. “The Nemeton, then.” She takes a small sip of her tea, then turns the question back to him. “What do _you_ think?”

He stares her in the eye and says flatly. “I don't know.”

“Honesty.” She doesn't looked upset. If anything, she looks _fond_ , and he swears some days (most days) he can't read her at all. “I like it.” She reaches across the table and puts her hand on his. “No. It wasn't me.”

“But you know about it.”

“Derek,” she says patiently. “That much power? Any emissary within a five hundred mile radius would have felt it. It's the reason Deaton sealed it, remember? The last thing we want is for Beacon Hills to start living up to its name again. Then your population might _actually_ have to learn the necessity of sacrifice. But no -” she forestalls his obvious question. “It wasn't that kind of power. And no, it wasn't me. As amusing as it might be, making two middle aged men relive _Back to the Future II_ doesn't really offer me any benefits.”

He studies her for a minute, then his eyes narrow as he reads something on her face. “Even if you didn't do it, you know who did.”

She inclines her head with a tiny hum, then takes another sip of tea.

“But you're not going to tell me.”

“Mmm. No. Sometimes, Derek, it's not your job to fix things. Sometimes you just need to sit back and let them play out. You're not Scott. And neither am I.”

“This isn't a _game_ , Jennifer. Chris wants to _kill you_. This 'not the time' bullshit isn't going to make him change his mind. _Tell me who._ ”

“Would you let him? Kill me?” she asks curiously.

“I don't know,” he shoots back, even though he knows the answer is 'no'.

“Liar,” she sing songs. “Relax. Just..tell him I'm threading the needle. He should understand. And even if he doesn't, I think he's a little too preoccupied to be proactive in planning my murder. At least not for a few days. And, well -” her smile is a bit too smug, a bit too coldly triumphant to sit comfortably with him, “- the last time he tried didn't turn out too well for him, did it? Or Stiles' and Scott's parents for that matter. He should really be nicer to you, seeing as how you were willing to take their place. I have to say,” she runs the tip of her forefinger across his knuckles, “You made an _excellent_ guardian.”

He jerks his hand back, shoves his chair away from the table, and stands. “I have to go.” He leaves his frappe where it is, unsure if the churning in his stomach will even let him keep it down. “I hope you know what you're doing, Jennifer. I think you've used up all your resurrections.”

“Tell that to your uncle.” She slides her sunglasses back on her face and waves goodbye with a waggle of her fingers. “See you in a few days.”

************

Beacon Hills has a mall now. Chris knows this because he has been dragged through at least _fifty fucking stores_ in the last three hours. He glances around, and nominally assured the coast is clear, he reaches a hand toward a plaid flannel shirt he's been eying for a good five minutes.

His fingers are just brushing fabric when eerily twin _No's_ , snap out from behind him. He turns to glare balefully at Asshole 1 and his Peter - whom he is, privately, very close to labeling Asshole 1a for the rest of the day. They glare back, arms crossed and eyes narrowed too similarly for comfort.

He ignores them. Looks around again until he finds his older self, who has grown steadily grumpier and more disgruntled looking at each progressive store. It's...comforting; the reassurance that this one thing, at least, hasn't changed over the years. He catches his eye, not even ashamed that he's silently begging for help and that he likely looks like a deer caught in the headlights. It's pretty much how he feels.

His older self shrugs and nods. “Sure.”

Chris triumphantly smirks over his shoulder and jerks the shirt from the hanger.

“For God's sake, Argent,” Asshole 1 says, “you'd at least think you'd have _some_ pride in how your younger half looks. Flannel? _Really_?”

“And what exactly's wrong with it?” The other man looks pointedly around the store. “There are at least three other boys in here wearing it.”

“Just because it's popular, doesn't mean one should put it on their body,” Asshole 1 says snidely. “Look how many of them are wearing _skinny jeans_.” The horror in his voice is unmistakable, and Chris and his Peter – who is _not_ Asshole 1a, even if his attempts to dress Chris occasionally drive him insane – exchanged confused looks. What the hell was the problem with skinny jeans?

They leave the two adults snipping at each other and Peter comes to stand with Chris. “How about,” he starts, clearly in bargaining mode, “you get the shirt, but you wear it with this.” He snags a t-shirt from a neighboring display and holds it up for Chris' inspection. It's nothing special, plain and black, but Chris can tell it will fit him a lot closer than how he usually would wear it.

He eyes Peter with a small, playful grin. “I don't know. I think you just want to ogle me.”

Peter lifts a brow. “And the problem is...?”

His smile goes full blown as he shakes his head and tugs the shirt from Peter. “Nothing. Okay, deal.”

Their older halves are still arguing, whatever irritation Asshole 2 had been nursing all day finally bubbling over. Their heads are bent close and they're whispering furiously. Peter and Chris watch them for a minute, Peter tilting his head to try and listen.

“What are they arguing about?” Chris asks.

“Clothes. Us going to school. Me sneaking into your room last night – old me thinks they should make us share a room with them...yeah that's not going to happen – more blah blah blah about them not trusting each other blah blah blah blah...wanting to kill some woman named Jennifer – that's you, by the way, not me – wait...no they're not fighting about that. They're _commiserating_.” They watch for a minute longer, until it's obvious whatever common ground the two men had found has been lost, and then Peter speaks again.

“Christopher.”

“Hmm?” he answers, not taking his eyes off the two men, who have added waving hand gestures to the mix.

“We're liars. Huge ones. We _definitely_ still have a thing for each other.”

Chris nods in wordless agreement. Of course they do. He can't imagine what he feels for Peter ever going away, no matter how much they've obviously fucked up.

“We should fix us.”

“Don't call them us. That's not us. We're not gonna be that.”

Peter gives him a look, and an eyeroll. “Of course not. Because we're rad and they suck. But technically we are the same people. DNA and all. So we should fix us.”

“Right now I think we should keep them from killing each other in public.” They aren't even talking now, just glaring at each other. Chris and Peter share a look of pure aggravation before Peter flounces over to them and plants himself right between them.

“I'm hungry. If you insist on keeping us prisoner, then you have to feed us. Geneva convention.”

They switch from glaring at each other to glaring at Peter, and then Chris interjects himself into the fray, holding up his handful of clothes. “I need to check out.”

Asshole 2 growls under his breath and barks at Asshole 1. “Take that one and get us in line somewhere. I'll take this one to checkout.”

 _Rude_.

Asshole 1 sniffs condescendingly. “I'm not eating in a _food court_. I hope you know that.”

“Christ, _fine_.” Asshole 2 snaps back. “Then go put our names on the list for one of the restaurants. Just text the name.” Without waiting for a reply he turns to Chris. “Follow me.”

Chris winks over his shoulder at Peter as he jogs to catch up, and Peter smirks cheerfully back.

* * * * * * * * * *

They're waiting in line for the hostess to take their name – a sushi place; Peter is pleased his older self still has taste – when he looks over at the man standing beside him. He's not looking at Peter, not looking at anything, really, and to anyone else he probably seems calm, collected, just the tiniest bit bored. Peter is impressed how well he's perfected the art Peter is just starting to cultivate. But because he _is_ Peter – more or less, give or take, six of one half dozen of the other – Peter can count any number of barely there ticks that say he is anything _but_ calm.

Which of course means now is the time Peter will choose to push. He shoves his hands in his pockets and says quietly, “I won't leave him. I wouldn't.”

The older man rolls his eyes. “What?”

“I won't leave Christopher. I wouldn't. I _couldn't_.”

“I'm not discussing this with you.” He picks up a menu, scanning it distractedly.

Peter just shrugs. “It doesn't matter. I know I wouldn't. So whatever the story is, I know it's not true.”

His older man sets the menu down – careful, deliberate – and tilts his head toward Peter. “Is that so?” His expression twists in an instant to something cool and sadistic. “Well allow me to give you a hand off that high horse, child. You _leave_ him. And you walk away.” His heartbeat is steady and strong as he bares his teeth. His words dig in, sharp and vicious. “And you _break_ us. That's _all_ the story is.”

Pressure twists and pops in Peter's chest, and he fights the urge to run, to find Chris. _It doesn't matter_ , he thinks numbly. _It doesn't matter because we change it._ “No. He's your anchor. How did you even _survive_?”

“Oh, I didn't.” His face is back to cool and amused. “What was that you accused me off?” He spreads his arms wide, putting himself on display. _“Look at what I did to us.”_ He drops them back down and leans in conspiratorially. “But if it makes you feel better, he leaves you, too.” He winks and smiles, faint and cruel. “Oh, look. The hostess is back. Still hungry, right?”

Peter stares back dully. _It doesn't matter. It doesn't matter. We just have to find out so we can change it._ He swallows hard and looks around, hoping to see Chris. When he doesn't appear, he forces his voice to come out, calm and unaffected. “I have to take a piss.”

The dick he supposedly becomes looks like he's about to object. Peter sticks out his jaw mulishly. “What? You're forcing us to go to school, all on our little lonesomes, and yet I can't be trusted to find my way to the _bathroom_?”

The other man considers, then shrugs. “Fine. Back out into the mall and down the hall to your left. You have five minutes. Do _not_ make me have to come after you.”

He finds the bathroom easily, and spends two of his allotted minutes staring into the mirror, trying not to panic. He thinks about Chris, thinks about the way his fingertips feel stroking down his spine. Thinks about the way the corners of his eyes crinkle when he's genuinely amused. The way his breath catches when Peter wraps his mouth around his dick.

His heart rate slows. Steadies. And in thirty seconds he's pulled himself back from the brink. He washes his hands and his face and heads back out the door.

He rounds the corner and nearly runs into a red-headed girl. He's muttering a perfunctory apology, not really paying attention, when she suddenly sucks in a panicked breath and skitters back several steps. Her eyes widen and then slam shut, while her hands clench to fists at her side. “I am not crazy, I am not crazy.” She says it over and over, barely audible under her breath.

He eyes her cautiously, one eyebrow shooting up in bemusement. “Look, I don't know what your malfunction is, but if you actually want people to buy that, you probably shouldn't be chanting it in public.” He gives her outfit a critical look. “And maybe not wear that skirt with those tights.”

In the next instant, he realizes what a terrible mistake he's made.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 8 preview:
> 
> It's possible she's a hunter. She's young, but she's at least Chris' age. And Chris is already deadly. But they're in a very, very public place, and hunters are usually far more discreet. He looks around, hoping for someone to come down the hall. Hoping for some kind of exit that isn't just an empty bathroom that leads to a dead end.
> 
> The fingers on her right hand twitch a quarter turn to the left. He probably wouldn't even have noticed it, if it wasn't a move he's seen a thousand times. A move he knew by heart. Because it's _Chris'_ move. And it means she's just loosened a knife strapped to the inside of her forearm.
> 
>  
> 
> _Shit._
> 
>  
> 
> He takes several quick steps back. Hisses with fangs out and claws extended. “I'm not doing anything wrong. I'm not hurting anyone.”


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I will never forgive Jeff for his mishandling of Lydia and Peter's interactions in 3a. Never.

 

The girl's eyes snap open and despite her size, she somehow manages to look down her nose at him. Her face is suddenly imperious and resolute. “I...am not... _crazy,_ ” she hisses. “'He's under control' they said. 'He knows he can't step out of line,' they said. _Ha_. I _told_ them.” She steps forward and something in her eyes makes him take a matching step back. 

 

“Um...” he says uncertainly. “I think you might have confused me with someone el -”

 

“What,” She asks bitterly. “No flowers this time? Not gonna come find Prada?” She takes another step forward. “You are _not_ doing this to me again. Next time I see you, Peter, I'm going to cut your head off and stuff wolfsbane down your throat. Let's see you come back from that one.”

 

Any lingering amusement evaporates in an instant. She somehow knows who he _is_. Knows how to _kill_ him. _Christ_.

 

It's possible she's a hunter. She's young, but she's at least Chris' age. And Chris is already deadly. But they're in a very, very public place, and hunters are usually far more discreet. He looks around, hoping for someone to come down the hall. Hoping for some kind of exit that isn't just an empty bathroom that leads to a dead end.

 

“Look,” he starts. “Let's not -”

 

The fingers on her right hand twitch a quarter turn to the left. He probably wouldn't even have noticed it, if it wasn't a move he's seen a thousand times. A move he knew by heart. Because it's _Chris_ ' move. And it means she's just loosened a knife strapped to the inside of her forearm.

 

 _Shit_.

 

He takes several quick steps back. Hisses with fangs out and claws extended. “I'm not doing anything wrong. I'm not hurting anyone.”

 

She trills out a frosty laugh. “Right. You'll have to sell that to someone else.” And then he has to wonder again if she really _is_ unbalanced, because she looks around searchingly.

 

“Where are you hiding this time? What hole are you slithering out of?”

 

He thinks he could take her, but he doesn't want to hurt anyone. Doesn't want to do anything to cross a line with whatever hunting family she's from. The Hales keep the _peace_. Talia has drilled that into his head since he could barely toddle. If the hunters come, run and hide and go to ground. He's casting about desperately for a solution when a flicker of movement at the end of the hall catches his eye.

 

It's Chris, sliding carefully around the corner on quiet soldier's feet. His face is calm but his eyes are wide as he assesses the situation, instinct telling him something is off where others would just see conversation. Peter feels a wave of pride that steadies him even as he tilts his head minutely toward the girl. He lets his eyes go yellow, knowing Chris will understand that means the girl is _aware_.

 

Chris freezes, then nods, then kneels to pull the knife from the sheath of his ankle. He straightens, but barely makes it two steps before the sound of heavy footfalls echo, just seconds before Chris' older incarnation inexplicably appears behind him and shoves him out of the way in his haste. He sprints down the hall, hand held out, with Chris at his heels.

 

“Lydia! Stop.”

 

She's one of his? _Shit_.

 

He slows to a halt at her side, one hand coming to rest lightly on her shoulder, while Chris hovers behind him, on edge and with his blade flipped up so it's hidden in his palm.

 

“Lydia,” he says again.

 

She doesn't take her eyes off Peter as she draws in a deep breath. “He's in my head again, Mr. Argent.”

 

The older man looks down at her, his face the softest and most compassionate Peter has seen since they've been here. For just that minute, Peter can clearly see Christopher in him for the first time. “No he's not, Lydia. You're not seeing things. I promise. This is real. He's real. I can see him, too.”

 

She cocks her head to the side. “Really.” Her eyes narrow and her lips purse. “Good. Then that means this will actually hurt.” Peter only has a millisecond to see it coming, to prepare for the blow as the dagger drops from her sleeve to her hand and she brings it up in a precisely defined arc that will catch him in the kidney and hurt like a _bitch_.

 

Only it doesn't. Because Chris – idiotic, human, unable to spontaneously _heal_ Christopher – darts around and between them, shoving Peter back as he goes. Lydia's blade misses Peter entirely and he watches in horror as it catches Chris high on his side, over his rib cage. Chris stumbles and drops his knife as Peter shoves him behind his body at the same time his adult self grabs Lydia around the waist and hauls her back.

 

“I'm going to rip your _face off_ ,” Peter roars, not caring about the noise, not caring about the exposure. Not anymore. He's going to disembowel the bitch right here. She hurt Chris. _She hurt Chris._ Through the static in his head he feels Chris' hand on his arm. Hears a hoarse _I'm fine, Petie. It didn't even go deep._ He shakes his hand off at the same time Chris' older self wraps his fingers around Lydia's wrist and forces her to drop the knife.

 

It clatters noisily to the floor. “Lydia, _stop._ He's not him. He's not _him_.” He looks up at Peter, then over his shoulder to Chris. Something flickers over his face, too fast for Peter to identify, especially right now, and then he's focusing back on Peter. “Get it together,” he orders sternly. “You can't do this here. You can't do this _at all_. Look at him. He's _fine_.”

 

Chris is suddenly in his face then, blocking his view of Lydia and shattering the red haze surrounding him. Peter can smell the pain on him, can see it in the tightness around his eyes, but he cups Peter's face with one hand and presses their foreheads together. “It barely caught me, Petie. Might not even need stitches. You gotta calm down, okay?”

 

Peter swallows the distressed whine in the back of his throat. “She _stabbed_ you. What were you thinking you idiot?” The side of Chris' shirt is soaked red and they both hiss in tandem as Peter rolls the fabric up to expose the wound. He's still going to gut the girl, no question about that, but Chris is more important right now. “This needs stitches.”

 

He's barely touched the angry, red slash when he hears footsteps again. Chris jerks his shirt down and keeps his back to the hall, while his older version sets Lydia's feet on the floor and lets her go, excepting a hand on her arm. She's calmed down some – she trusts Chris in this timeline and at this age, that much is apparent.

 

No one but an idiot could see the four of them and not know something was wrong, but then again, Peter has discovered the vast majority of humans _are_ idiots, so they stand even chances here. They've barely arranged themselves into a semblance of order when the footsteps peak in their echo and Peter – the other Peter, the older Peter, the Peter that is the monster of his full moon nightmares – rounds the corner.

 

“Well, no one told me we were having a party. How rude. Five minutes, remember? Our table is -” He cuts off abruptly as he finally catches sight of the girl. “Ah. Awkward.”

 

“ _You,_ ” she spits out, with a kind of vitriol that Peter would be impressed with if he didn't _hate_ her.

 

“Me!” Peter answers cheerfully. “Small world, isn't it?”

 

“ _Enough_.” The irritated command rings out in the long hall, and Chris strips his jacket off in short, angry motions. “We need to take this somewhere more private.” He tosses his jacket to where Peter is still huddled with Christopher. “Put this on him until we get out of here.” He whirls around and points a finger at the other Peter. “You! Shut up.” He stoops down to pick up the knife, Then puts an arm around Lydia's shoulders. “Come with me.”

 

She peers up at him. “This is what Allison's text was about, isn't it?”

 

“Hmm?” He starts walking them forward, obviously expecting everyone else to fall in line. And as much as Peter would like to prove him wrong, he needs to get Chris somewhere he can properly take care of him.

 

“She texted me. I was supposed to go to the apartment as soon as I got back. I just stopped here because I had an order to pick up.”

 

Chris nods, while simultaneously glaring at the older Peter as they pass. He rolls his eyes, but holds up his hands in surrender. “I'm coming, I'm coming.”

 

Peter helps Christopher into the jacket and then wraps an arm around his waist as they follow at the tail of the line. Ahead of them, he hears Chris talking quietly to Lydia. “Your form was really good. The practice has been paying off.” His voice is proud. Paternal. If this is another kid Chris has somehow managed to produced, Peter really is going to lose it.

 

Right before they round the corner and re-enter the mall, Lydia turns her head and looks over her shoulder at him. “And by the way? These tights? Go perfectly with this skirt.”

 

* * * * * * * * * * * *

 

They end up in a delivery alley behind the mall, tucked in between two dumpsters. The boys are crouched down against the wall with Chris' shirt pulled off and Peter's head ducked down against him. It's not that Chris isn't concerned – of course he's concerned, Jesus fucking Christ – it's just that he knows it's not serious, and he doesn't need to look over there to know that Peter is probably running his tongue along the gash in a desperate gambit to push healing enzymes into Chris' body, or that the kid's hands are probably buried deep in Peter's hair as he murmurs comforting nonsense to try to calm him down. His fingertips tingle and he frowns before turning his attention to more important concerns.

 

Lydia is tapping her foot impatiently, her arms crossed over her chest, while Peter stands a few feet away, looking disdainfully around him.

 

“Mr. Argent?” Lydia prompts. “You said he wasn't _him_. But it is _clearly_ him.” She points at the boys accusingly, and Chris runs an aggravated hand through his hair.

 

“It's him. But not the one he made you see. This one's real. Flesh and blood. He doesn't know anything about what Peter did to you.”

 

“ _How_?”

 

Peter makes an exasperated sound and glides over. “We should just have cue cards to hand out. Save repetition. Long story short, my dear: Someone used the nemeton to pluck those two from the past – where they should have _stayed_ , I can assure you – and deposited them on our doorstep.”

 

Lydia looks like she's regretting letting Chris take her knife away as she glares at Peter before dismissing him and turning to Chris. “Jennifer?”

 

He clenches his jaw but finally shakes his head. “We don't know yet,” he unwillingly admits. “We're trying to figure that out.”

 

Lydia looks thoughtful as she mulls that over, and then something obviously occurs to her. “Wait. So if that one's Peter...Who's the garage band wannabee he's feeling up?”

 

Peter grins delightedly as Chris pinches the bridge of his nose. He sighs and clears his throat. “It's me.”

 

“That's you.” She repeats flatly. “The boy who is currently -” She looks over at the teens and then back to him, one eyebrow raised “ -trying to strip mine for Peter's tonsils. Is you.”

 

He glances at Chris' wound, high on the right side of his rib cage and still bleeding sluggishly, and frowns again. “Yes.” He doesn't offer any further explanation.

 

“So wait...” Her eyes narrow and Chris can practically _hear_ her brain collating data. “Wow,” she deadpans. “I'm surprised you have a closet big enough for all these skeletons. Somehow I don't think Allison took the news well, huh?”

 

A quiet voice interrupts before Chris can answer. “What did he do to her? Why did she want to kill me?”

 

“Oh, don't use past tense, sweetheart,” Lydia snaps out at the two boys who have suddenly taken an interest in the conversation. “I'm pretty sure I still do. I don't like your face.”

 

“Don't worry,” Peter's younger self snaps back. “I'm not very fond of yours, either.” He bares his teeth at her before turning his irritation to Peter. “What did you _do?_ ”

 

“Again with the dissociative tendencies. We. What did _we_ do is the proper terminology here.

 

“ _Fine_. What did _we_ do?”

 

“It's a tricky situation, don't you think?” Peter casts a glance at Chris, the corner of his lip quirked up in a way that promises he's about to piss him off. “I mean, it's not like we can avoid _everything_ that's going on with you. On the other hand, maybe this is where you get the idea. How circular.”

 

“Hale,” Chris warns in a low voice. Lydia is not so reticent.

 

“Shut _up_ , you sociopath.” She walks over to the other teens and looks speculatively down at Peter. “Did your parents not love you enough? Kill dogs in front of you or something?” She switches the look to Chris. “What do you think? Nature or nurture?”

 

“You need to _shut up_ ,” he says through gritted teeth. “before I shut you up. You don't know _anything_.”

 

“Really.” She looks up and shrugs. “Hmm.” Then she crouches down next to them, careful to avoid touching any of the bits of trash surrounding them. “Here's what I know. That one -” she tilts her head toward Peter. “-grows up to terrorize every single one of my friends. Kills _a lot_ of people. Including your sister. Ah, didn't know that one yet? Surprise and condolences.

 

“But really, lets get back to me. He attacks me. Puts his grimy little thoughts in my head. So that after we _kill_ him, I start seeing him everywhere. Only, see, he's kind of a nightmare as an adult. I didn't respond as well as he'd like. So he tried a new tactic.” Her eyes snap fire as she rounds on the other teen. “ _You._ Turns out I _was_ a little too vulnerable to emo boys who wanted to romance me. So he gets resurrected, and _I_ spend six months trying to convince the entire population of my school that I'm not actually insane.”

 

She stands and brushes her hands off on her skirt. “End of story.”

 

“But we don't even _like_ girls!” Peter half shouts, half wails across the alley, at where his adult self had been listening to Lydia's venomous narration with an obvious air of amused boredom.

 

He shrugs unrepentantly and Chris narrowly resists the urge to punch him in his smug face. There's a thing called _compassion_.

 

“One works with what one has. Besides, I really don't think you have any room to talk. I seem to remember you taking plenty of girls out.”

 

“That was _different_.”

 

“Yes, yes,” Peter waves a hand. “I know. Anything to try to hide your inconvenient little crush on your best friend. _So_ much more noble than trying to _stay alive_. Are we done here, Argent? The smell is beginning to seep into my pores. Besides, if we wait much longer for those stitches, I'm afraid my younger self might have a fit.”

 

Chris considers the options. “We could take to him to Melissa.” He's not looking forward to going over all of this _again_ but she keeps her med kit stocked with anesthesia now, and it's kinder than doing it in the field.

 

Peter makes a face. “I'd really rather not.”

 

“Oh, that's _right_ ,” Lydia pipes up helpfully. “You tried to use her to blackmail Scott. Mr. Argent, I'm really starting to question your taste here.”

 

Says the teenager who is knowingly sleeping with a murderer. Instead of pointing that out, he smiles benignly. “I bet Allison would really appreciate having another girl to talk to right now. I'll call her later, but I'm sure she'll enjoy your version of events more.”

 

Lydia raises an eyebrow. “Is that your way of politely telling me it's time to go?”

 

“Yes.”

 

She flips her hair over one shoulder. “Fine. But you should be careful, Mr. Argent.”

 

“I'm always careful, Lydia. You know that. But I appreciate the concern.”

 

She humphs, then spins on her heels and heads toward the parking lot, pulling her phone out as she goes.

 

“When did you adopt so many teenagers, Argent?”

 

He thinks about ignoring Peter, but ends up just shrugging. “When someone had to start preparing them for what you unleashed.”

 

“Funny, I don't recall being the one burning down houses.”

 

“I can do it.” The interruption causes both he and Peter to whip their heads around, to where the younger boys were now standing. Chris has his t-shirt balled up and pressed against the wound as a makeshift bandage.

 

Peter continues, looking earnest and under control, despite the things he's just heard. “I can stitch him up. I've done it before.” It's true. He can easily remember Peter bent over him, hands shaking as he'd done his best to repair the damaged state he'd found Chris in. It's a day he does his best not to think about. The worst Gerard had ever -

 

He shakes his head to shatter the memory and gives a reluctant nod. He could do it, but he has no doubt who his younger self would prefer. “Okay. I have a field kit in the SUV. Let's make it quick.”

 

* * * * * * * * * * *

 

The minute the door to the loft closes behind them, Tweedledee and Tweedledum disappear into a bedroom with their packages – Peter will give them exactly thirty minutes of privacy before he drags them out by their ears if needs be – and Chris walks straight across the room and into the kitchen. Peter follows, curious, as Chris opens the refrigerator and starts examining its contents. By the time Peter joins him, he's piled smoked Gouda and portabellos and basil on the counter and started rummaging through the small pantry built into the wall.

 

“And what, exactly, are you doing?”

 

Chris doesn't pause in his task as he answers, and balsamic vinegar, hamburger buns, and a variety of spices join the every growing pile. “Food. They didn't get to eat, so we need to eat.” His movements continue, precise and economical and perfectly controlled.

 

Peter suppresses a smirk as he moves around Chris and extracts the makings of a salad from the refrigerator. Chris may have grown harder as he aged, may hold his cards just a little bit closer to his chest, and kill just a little bit quicker, but in many ways, he is still the boy he was at seventeen. Working with his hands still calms him. Still centers him. Still lets him believe he can somehow control all that wildness that still swirls around inside him. He keeps a tight lid on it these days, but whether either of them like it or not – and _Christ,_ Peter _hates_ it - Peter knows him better than almost anyone, and he knows exactly how much that calm exterior can hide.

 

He simply refuses to believe Gerard ever succeeded in completely crushing it.

 

Chris runs a damp cloth over the mushrooms to clean them, then barks out, “Pans.”

 

“Top left cabinet. Hand me the cutting board while you're there.” Peter turns on the sink and holds one hand behind him until he feels the weight of the board settle in his palm.

 

They work in silence for a bit, Chris clearly focused on nothing more than the motion of his hands and the task in front of him. He wordlessly hands Peter a chefs knife when he reaches for the onions, then turns his attention back to the balsamic glaze he's whisking, the muscles in his forearms flexing as he turns the bowl in counterpoint to the whisk.

 

Peter keeps half an ear out for the boys, but the steady rise and fall of muffled conversation seems to indicate their activities are more or less innocent for the moment. The smell of heating olive oil is permeating the air when Peter lightly asks, “Is everyone that needs to know, now in the know?”

 

Chris doesn't falter as he carefully sets the portabellos in the pan, gill side down. “I doubt it. But Lydia was probably the only one we had to worry about trying to kill him on sight. That was an unfortunate convergence of events today. We were lucky we got there when we did.”

 

Peter rolls his eyes and retrieves a large glass salad bowl from underneath the sink. “Don't be so dramatic. It was fine.”

 

“She could have killed me, you understand that, right? She could have killed _you_. She's perfectly capable; Allison and I have taught her how.”

 

“Why, Chris,” Peter simpers deliberately. “You almost sound _concerned_ for me. How sweet.”

 

“Of course I'm concerned!” he snaps, but doesn't elaborate. The pan hisses as he drizzles the glaze over the portabellos, and the sweet, acrid smell of vinegar fills the air. “You need to resolve things with her.”

 

“And how exactly do you suggest I do that? She doesn't seen the type to appreciate a nice bouquet or a box of candy.”

 

“An apology would be a good start.” Chris grabs the tongs and flips the mushrooms, then sets thick slices of smoked Gouda on top of them.

 

“But I'm not sorry.”

 

“Dammit, Peter!”

 

“Argent,” he says patiently. “If the choice is between Option B, or being dead, I can promise you I'm always going to go with Option B. Besides -” he pops a piece of cheese in his mouth, “- she has yet to apologize for teaching those brats how to set me on fire.”

 

“Christ!” Chris slams his hand on the counter. “Do you have to make everything more difficult?” Chris smells like grief and anger and bitterness and despair, but Chris always smells of that these days.

 

“Why shouldn't I?” Peter shoots back, the thin veneer of his humor finally slipping as it always threatens to do in Chris' presence. “Why in God's name should I make _anything_ easier on _any_ of you? Why pretend to be anything other than what I am?”

 

“They're _children_ , Peter!”

 

“That didn't save us, _so why should it save_ _them_?” His shout fills the loft, and the silence it leaves behind is deafening. He inhales deeply and forces his expression to smooth back out, then scoops up the lettuce, dumps it in the bowl, and says lightly, “You're going to burn the mushrooms if you don't take them off the heat.”

 

The bedroom door opens and two sets of eyes peer warily into the room. Peter beckons them out. “Good. It's almost time to eat. Which of you wants to set the table?”

 

* * * * * * * * * *

 

Hours after the awkward, forced, indigestion inducing meal – although really, awkward dinners were becoming something of an Argent forte – Chris stands in front of the mirror in the guest bathroom. The ever present exhaustion presses deeper than usual, and he runs a weary hand over his face. Christ, but he's getting old.

 

He stares at his face for another minute before telling himself to get on with it, grabbing the hem of his shirt and yanking it over his head. It falls, to the floor, forgotten, and his lips press into a tight line as he thoughtfully runs his fingers over the thin, barely there scar, high on the right side of his rib cage.

* * * * * * * * * * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 9 preview (1/4/13):
> 
> This has been a standing date every Wednesday for months, and they had long ago made the agreement not to reschedule every time a new monster of the week showed up. So there's no getting around it. He slides into a chair and takes his coat off before raising his head and looking across the table at where Melissa and the sheriff are silently watching him. Neither of them say anything, although Melissa's mouth is quirked in a way that hints at amusement.
> 
> After a minute he clears his throat and picks up the menu. "I don't want to talk about it. I just want to eat."


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is mostly interpersonal interaction and drama, but there are a few pieces of important information that surface. Next update is two Saturdays from now.

 

Peter slips through Chris' door at 6AM. Chris, conditioned by years of early morning trainings, has been awake and dressed for an hour. An unlit cigarette is pinched between his lips and one combat booted foot propped on the bed as he paints his fingernails with a bottle of black polish, liberated yesterday through the use of a five finger discount. He hasn't seen Peter since right after dinner, because the Asshole Brigade insisted everyone sleep with their doors open, but it's morning now, so they can fuck right off.

Peter sits down next to him. “Let me see,” he orders.

Chris obediently lifts his arms so Peter can ruck his t-shirt up to his underarms. The stretch causes the stitches to pull, just a little, but it's not bad. Or at least he's had far worse. Peter glares at the sutures for a long minute before letting the shirt drop and plucking the cigarette from Chris' mouth. He replaces it with his lips and Chris uses his free hand to cup the back of his neck to keep him there for a long minute.

When he lets go, Peter rests their foreheads together and whispers, “I was so scared. I wanted to kill her.”

“I know,” Chris says. “But I'm okay.”

“This time,” Peter mutters darkly. He pulls back, and while Chris resumes work on his nails, he digs into his pocket and pulls out a folded piece of paper. “I made a list.” At Chris' look he explains further. “Of what we know. About now.”

He unfolds the paper and spreads it out on his lap.

“We know that I le -” his words stumble before he clears his throat and pushes on. “We know I leave you. We know it's soon. You get married. You have a daughter. We know Katie...Katie kills my family -”

Peter's breath is hissing in and out of his nose and his hands are clenching the paper so tight his fingers are turning white and Chris wants to tell him to _stopstopstop_ but they need to figure this out. They need to know. He shifts so that his legs press and mingle with Peter's, and Peter takes a deep breath and starts again.”

“He says I leave you, but that you leave me, too.” This is the first Chris has heard of that, and his chest clenches painfully. “And we know whatever happened wasn't because of Katie.”

Peter's hand sneaks to Chris' side and tangles in his t-shirt. “We know I kill Laura and Katie.”

“Not you,” Chris says firmly. “Him.”

Peter's smile is sad and small. “He _is_ me, Chris.” Chris opens his mouth to protest but Peter shakes his head. “He's me without you. Everything he's done? I could. I could do it. You don't know what it was like before you came. I hated it - _hated it -_ but there was a part of me that really wanted to hurt people. Wanted to watch them squirm and bleed. It scared me so much. But it felt so _good,_ too. Talia helped control it. But full moons -” He shakes his head again. “Then you came. And it all got so small I could barely hear it anymore.

“But if you go. If I lose my pack-- I could. I _could_ , Christopher. And you would want to kill me.” 

He would never want to kill Peter. Never. But he doesn't say that. Instead, he caps the polish and buries his face in Peter's neck. Mouth to Peter's skin, he promises, “Then we make sure you're not without me.”

Peter's chest rises as he inhales deeply, scenting Chris. “Of course we do.” His voice has returned to it's normal devil-may-care haughtiness, and Chris smiles before lifting his head and tugging the list from him.

“Let's see what else we've got.” There's the things Lydia had said, and a few items Peter has parsed together out of clues they had gotten from their initial confrontation with Stiles and the other teens. It's a depressing, morbid list, and there's still not enough to draw any other conclusion but Shit Goes Down.

He retrieves his cigarette from the bed clothes and stands. “I'm gonna smoke. Come with?”

Peter follows him from the room and out to the balcony.

  
  


* * * * * * * * * * *

  
  


School is...school. Twenty years passing doesn't seem to have made much difference to Beacon Hills High, except for the addition of a new wing and a fresh coat of paint. There's still the same cliques and the same stupid lockers that stick and even the basketball court smells exactly the same. The only time Chris really gets pissed off is on the ride there, when his _dick_ of an older self leans over to Peter's older self and suggests they put the both of them in totally separate classes. 

But before Chris or Peter can even begin to protest, the other Peter looks over and says with utter condescending incredulity, “Really, Argent? _Really_? Do you _honestly_ think that's a remotely good idea? Follow that line of thought for just a minute.” 

The two of them share some sort of weird silent conversation before Chris presses his lips together and nods, turning his attention back to the road. “You're right.” It looks like it costs him a lot to say that, and in the back seat, Peter turns to Chris and they exchange mildly confused looks. It's not that they're ungrateful for the intercession, but it's both unexpected and unexplained.

As it turns out, they still don't get every class together, but it's every class but two, and that's close enough to their actual school schedule that Chris doesn't protest. There's books and lockers and a flurry of meaningless condolences from faculty and staff about whatever tragic accident it was that landed he and Peter in the care of their guardians. He refuses to admit he's just a bit impressed with how smoothly their adult versions spin their lies and field the questions; they play off of each other like they've been doing it forever, like they hadn't just been yelling at each other two seconds before they all walked into the school.

In every class there's at least one of the teens he's met: Stiles, or Scott, or Isaac, or Lydia. The class before lunch is the worst, because it's Allison, and there's no Peter. The teacher, probably in a well intentioned attempt to keep him close to “family,” sits him in the desk in front of her, and he spends the entire period with his teeth clenched and uses his pencil to drill a small hole through the notebook in front of him. As soon as the bell rings he bolts for the door and doesn't look back.

He finds Peter slouched against the wall by the cafeteria door, just like he has hundreds of times before, and the familiarity of it, the _sameness_ of it all, steadies him to a rolling saunter as he comes up beside him.

“I had that Stiles brat last class.” Peter starts in with no explanation. “Do you think we could kill him without anyone noticing?”

Chris grins and tilts his head toward the growing line. “What do you bet they still serve them the same slop they serve us?”

“Well,” Peter replies loftily, “I suppose we should find out.”

They drift into the line about halfway to the front, ignoring the indignant yelp of the freshman they cut. Chris says a halfhearted “Thanks,” over his shoulder before dismissing him entirely. It is, in fact, the same old slop, and Chris is 99% sure he even sees one of the same lunch ladies still working in the back. The only difference is he gets yelled at when he tries to leave without a vegetable on his plate, which has never happened to him before. Peter picks up two bowls of greasy looking green beans and wiggles them at the line worker before dropping one on each other their trays with a loud clatter.

They claim a table in the far back of the room. There are a few groups of kids who look like they want to argue with them about it, but every single one of them falters and changes directions when he and Peter stare them down. Pussies.

Then a set of overly muscled twins walk right up to the table. They don't even bother to look at Peter and Chris before slamming their trays down across from them and taking a seat. Chris opens his mouth to tell them to get lost, but Peter kicks his ankle first.

“Werewolves,” he hisses.

The twins look up then, smiles identically sharp and predatory. For a millisecond their eyes glow electric blue before settling back into more human hues.

“You're part of Scott's pack?” Chris can understand the uncertainty in Peter's voice. From what he's seen, Scott's pack has a fairly comfortable alliance with his adult self, and it's almost unheard of for hunters to work with wolves who willingly carry murderers in their midst. It's too far from the Code.

Before they have a chance to answer, another kid shows up, his tray clattering against the table as he drops into the seat next to the twin across from Chris. He's almost as muscled as the other two, with brown, intelligent looking eyes, and a face that hints at ingrained kindness, despite the sharp angles that define it. As Chris watches, everything in the wolf across from him changes, his aggression seeping away so fast it's like it never existed at all. His face softens as he grins adoringly at the darker boy settling in beside him. “You're late.”

Peter gives a quick shake of his head as the boy answers. Human, then.

“Ugh, yeah. Finstock's test was a _bitch_.” The boy slings a casual arm around the twin's shoulder and presses a light kiss to his cheek.

Chris startles and takes a covert and hurried look around the cafeteria. Nobody is watching. Or rather, there are people looking, but no one seems to _care_. He hesitantly untucks his arm from his lap and wraps it around Peter's shoulder, tensed for any sign of trouble. But there's nothing. He peeks around the room again under his lashes, and just like before, there's not even the slightest disruption to the normal ebb and flow, the slightest hint they're doing something radical or out of place. _Oh._ He turns his head and presses his face into Peter's cheek. Puts his mouth to his ear. “Nobody _cares_.”

He feels the movement of Peter's cheek as he grins against his mouth. “Viva la future.”

“Dork.”

“Asshole.”

Despite the revelation, he's kept one ear to the conversation taking place across from him, and both he and Peter tune back in when the twin asks, “How do you think you did?”

“Finstock was doing his grumpy mutter while he graded it, so I think I aced it.”

“I knew you would.”

The other twin is still glaring, but the boy – the human – tilts his head across the table at them. “This them?”

His twin nods, and the boy narrows his eyes and examines them critically. Chris and Peter stare defiantly back and after a minute he turns back to the other wolf and gives a little nod. “Isaac was telling the truth.”

“Telling the truth about _what_?” Peter demands haughtily.

The boy shrugs. “He said Mr. Argent and Peter were _hot_ when they were younger.” Without missing a beat, he sticks his hand out. “I'm Danny. This is my boyfriend Ethan, and the grumpy one is Aiden.”

Aiden sneers and Danny laughs. “Well you are.”

Chris stares at Danny's hand a long time before shaking it, then pulling back as quickly as possible. “What else did Isaac say?”

“Not much. Stiles was kind of babbling over him with predictions of doom and horror and the end of the world. So pretty much the usual.”

“Stiles mentioned you,” Peter says slowly, like he's rolling the memory around in his head. “He said you were dating...” he trails off and redirects to Ethan and Aiden. “Oh. So you guys _are_ part of Scott's pack.”

For the first time the twins look uncertain, exchanging glances before Ethan makes a motion that's caught somewhere between a nod and a shrug. “Yeah, I guess so. More or less.”

“You either _are,_ or you _aren't_. Which is it?”

“It's...complicated.”

“Then explain it.”

The twins exchange glances again, but then Ethan looks to _Danny_ , which surprises the hell out of Chris. 

Danny lifts one shoulder and takes a bite of his apple. “May as well. They'll find out eventually. We all do.” Ethan looks down, something like shame passing over his face. And there's a story in there somewhere, something between the two of them, but when he looks up at Chris and Peter, his face is clear and defiant.

“We came into town as part of an alpha pack.”

“ _Bullshit_ ,” Peter spits out. At Chris' look, Peter explains. “Alpha packs are legends, man. Boogeyman stories. Vicious, feral. No endgame but death and power. You ever actually come across one...you don't fight. You _run_. But they don't exist. Not really.”

“Yeah, I don't care if you believe me or not,” Ethan shoots back. “You're the one who asked.”

He looks like he might stop talking entirely, so Chris puts a hand on Peter's knee and interjects carefully, “But you're not alphas now.”

Ethan looks down again. “No. We came through for territory. And more pack.” Aiden starts to say something but Ethan shakes his head. “It doesn't matter, Aiden. Jesus. At the end though, Aiden and I, we...um..” He looks at Danny and smiles, soft and happy, “We crossed the line. Decided to help Scott's pack win. So, ah, after Jennifer killed Kali and Deucalion, we, um, we didn't really have anywhere to go. Scott, ah, didn't make us leave. So, I guess, yeah, we're part of his pack now.”

That doesn't really explain the “not alphas now” bit, although it does make more sense why his future self might let them stick around.

Peter breaks in. “Wait, you said Deucalion? British guy, right?”

“Yeah. He was our alpha. He saved-- He was our alpha. Why? You know him? I mean, back...” Ethan vaguely waves his hand in a way Chris assumes is supposed to mean the time they came from.

“Yeah. Yeah.” Peter sits forward excitedly. “He's one of my sister's friends.”

“Yeah, not so much anymore,” Ethan mutters.

“What does that mean?”

The conversation is interrupted by the loud arrival of Stiles and Isaac, with Allison, Scott and Lydia on their heels. Lydia sits next to Aiden who puts an arm around her and Chris supposes that explains his animosity toward them well enough. She imperiously looks over at Chris.

“How's the side?”

He narrows his eyes. “It's rad, thanks,” he answers sarcastically. Something about what he says makes her double over in laughter, while Peter mutters _bitch_ under his breath. Which of course makes every werewolf at the table glare at him.

Stiles, on the other hand, leans over from his place beside Isaac. _“Soooo,_ I see you've met the murder twins.”

“Hey, Stiles,” Danny says pleasantly, the smile never leaving his face. “Why don't you shut up?”

“Ah, come on, Danny, you know you love me.”

“No, no, I really don't.”

Chris immediately likes Danny better.

“Come on, Stiles, it's not even funny anymore.” That's from Scott, who's on the other side of Isaac. Allison is sitting across from him, beside Lydia, and pointedly not taking part in the conversation.

“It's a little funny, Scott. Also, _true_.”

“Stiles,” Lydia says sweetly, “we're friends, right?”

Stiles slowly straightens and looks at her warily. “Yeah.”

“Then as your friend, let me warn you. That bruise that idiot over there gave you?” She nods toward Chris. “Is nothing compared to the one I'm gonna give you if you don't shut up.”

“I dunno, Lyds.” Stiles voice is sad, and regretful, but he's grinning and Chris gets the feeling this back and forth is a regular affair. “First a killer werelizard -” Peter looks at Chris and mouths ' _werelizard?'_ “- and then a killer werewolf. Your taste in boyfriends is _atrocious_.”

“Then how about this, Stilinski?” Lydia snaps, “You say one more word about anyone at this table's past, and I'm gonna let Derek know you've been sexting his baby sister for the last two months.”

“ _Hey!”_ Stiles protests. “Not fair!” Then he smiles slyly and darts a look at Chris and Peter. “I notice you didn't say anything about anyone's _future_.”

“No,” Lydia says primly. “I did not.”

Chris is beginning to seriously consider Peter's suggestion of murder and mayhem. Okay, not actual murder. Maybe.

Peter has his nose scrunched, like he does when he's making a mental connection. “You said Derek. Do you mean my nephew? Is he still here?”

Lydia turns wide eyes to Stiles. “They haven't _met_?”

“No. Derek was _busy_ -” he puts air quotes around the last word when he says it, “when they showed up.” He leans over Isaac again. “Yes, it's that Derek. Ex-alpha, Guardian of the Darach, Mr. Sourwolf himself. Sorry he missed the Meet and Greet. Pretty sure he was out...” He pauses and then grins delightedly. “Hey! How about that. _He's_ dating a murderer, too. I'm starting to feel a little left out. You think I can talk Cora into doing a Bonnie and Cly -” He cuts off and yelps. “Goddammit, Lydia! I need that ankle!”

“I warned you, Stilinski!”

“Hey! Hey! No!” He points a finger at her and then at the whole table. “They are _not_ at this table! You said at this table! No telling, Lydia! She's never gonna come back if Derek gets all stupid again!”

“Wait.” Chris interrupts whatever diatribe is about to take place, because it's the second time they've called him that. “Your last name is Stilinski?”

Stiles groans and covers his face. “God. Yes.”

“Is your dad -”

“Yes, Jesus.” Stiles waves his hand. “Yes, my dad is that Stilinski.” Everyone but Isaac is staring at him so he slowly uncovers his face. “My dad knew them. _Then_. They were _friends_.”

Chris is still mulling over the fact this asshole belongs to _Stilinski_ – although now that he's looking he can see the similarities – when Allison slams her hand onto the table, with enough force that the trays rattle and everyone jumps.

“ _Seriously_? What, did everyone know? Is there an adult in this town who didn't know?”

Chris shakes his head. Not that he likes her or anything, but he can maybe sort of see why she's pissed. Maybe. “Stilinski doesn't know.” He tugs Peter closer to him, struck all over again with the fact he can do that. _In public_. “About this. No one knows.”

Peter gives him a look. “Deaton knows.”

Chris considers it. He's never _said_ anything, but it's _Deaton_ , so - “Yeah, okay. Deaton knows.”

“You know what?” Allison stands and slides her tray off the table. “I've lost my appetite.” She slings her purse over her shoulder and glowers at Chris. “If you get a chance, could you tell my _dad_ I'd actually like to talk to him?”

She turns around and walks away. Scott stands, too, an apologetic smile on his lips, but there's something hard in his eyes as well. “I'm gonna -” he jerks his thumb over his shoulder and picks up his tray, but then pauses. “You know, she's really awesome. Amazing, actually. And usually, I think you're – _now_ you – is pretty awesome, too. I mean, you made _her_. But right now, man, you...him... _whatever_....are being a real _jerk_.” He shakes his head. “Well, you're kind of a jerk, too, but I _get_ that. He needs to _talk_ to her, okay?”

Then he's gone and Peter sniffs delicately. “Well. Someone's got their panties in a bunch.”

Lydia opens her mouth to retort but Isaac reaches across the table and touches her wrist. “Can we be done fighting now?”

Chris expects her to rip him to shreds like she's done everyone else, but inexplicably she purses her lips and nods. “Yeah, okay. Sorry.”

Nobody says anything for a few minutes, the sound of utensils against plastic the only noise, and then Isaac breaks the silence. “So, um, I wanted to ask. How long have you two been together?”

Both Aiden and Lydia roll their eyes in eerie synchronization. Peter looks at Chris and wrinkles his nose. “Five months? About?”

Chris nods and from over Peter's shoulder, sees Isaac's eyebrows draw together.

“Really? I thought it was longer. You guys act like it's longer.”

It's weird, Chris thinks, being able to talk about it to someone. They've never actually been able to talk to anyone. It's...nice...to be able to publicly acknowledge it. So instead of telling Isaac to mind his own business like he normally would, he answers him. “We've been best friends for forever. Since eight grade.” Ever since Gerard had first moved them to Beacon Hills.

Peter looks down at his napkin, the color high on his cheeks in what is one of the few times Chris has seen him actually look embarrassed. “I, um, I liked Chris for a long time. He didn't know.”

Chris nudges Peter with his shoulder. “I was stupid. And slow. But I caught up eventually.”

“You're not stupid,” Peter says emphatically. “I hate when you call yourself stupid.”

Lydia makes a gagging noise. “Aren't you two just adorable. I think I'm gonna vomit.”

Stiles comes around the table and takes Allison's seat. He crosses his arms on the table and leans forward. “So wait, did you guys always know about...you know.” He makes little clawing motions with his hands and then points a finger gun at the two of them. “ _You know_. I mean, I can't see Gerard being cool with that.”

Chris' fork clatters to the plate as he freezes, his body tensing at Gerard's name. “You know my father?”

Stiles barks out a laugh. “Do we know your father? Boy do we _ever_ know your -” He yelps and cuts off. “Again, Lydia! I need my freaking ankles!”

She smiles sweetly at Chris and Peter. “It's not really important. I want to hear the rest of the story. Go on.”

It most certainly _is_ fucking important, but Chris can tell they won't get any answers right now, not while Lydia is ruling the table. Later, though... Peter puts a hand on his knee and rubs his thumb in small circles.

“It's okay,” he whispers. “It's okay.”

Chris picks his fork up, shovels in another mouthful, and lets his shoulders relax. He shrugs and hopes it looks as careless as he wants it to. “We didn't know at first. We figured it out about a year ago.”

“And?”

Peter steals Chris' green beans to replace his own empty bowl. “And we decided it didn't matter.”

There's more to the story than that, of course. A rogue omega crossing through the county, leaving bodies as he went. Chris being the one to find and corner him in the woods, feeling the smooth metal of his crossbow under his fingertips as he'd aimed and fired. The wolfsbane infused arrow piercing straight through the omega's neck and dropping him instantly. The elation of a successful hunt broken by a sound, some sound he doesn't even remember, making him look up. Seeing Peter crouched on a tree branch, watching, his eyes glowing an unearthly yellow and his face terrified. Having everything he knew or thought he'd known about his best friend come crashing down around him as Peter had dropped to the ground, claws out, then whirled and ran.

There's more to the story than that, of course. There's Gerard's fury and disgust that Chris had spent nearly _every day_ for years with a wolf and never known (never mind _he'd_ lived in the same _town_.) There's Chris left broken and bleeding on the forest floor, Gerard dropping a med kit on the ground beside him and telling him he can come home once he's managed to patch himself up. There's Peter finding him, hours later, scared and confused and following the scent of Chris' blood. There's Peter desperately trying to keep his hands steady as he'd stitched Chris up, his voice quietly panicked as he'd ordered Chris to not pass out because he needed to tell Peter what to do, to be _okay,_ goddammit, because Peter is going to kick his ass if he isn't. There's the moment bundled up in all of that where Peter has Chris' head resting on his lap, and they realize they are more than their genetics, more than their families, that their friendship is stronger than all of this. That they are not going to be broken by this.

There is always more to the story.

He's done.

He pushes his tray away. Danny and Ethan have been silent through the whole conversation, focusing on each other more than what else is going on at the table, so he uses them to end it. “So how did you two get together?”

Danny grins, two dimples carving deep in his cheeks. “He couldn't resist my charms. What else?”

Ethan opens his mouth and then laughs. “It's true. I guess I can't really argue with that.”

“When did he tell you?”

Danny's smile is a little more tight this time. “He didn't tell me. Actually, _nobody_ told me. I figured it out. Eventually.”

Aiden shoots Chris an angry look before turning to Stiles and blatantly changing the subject. “Hey, Stiles, you took the English test this morning, right? Wanna give me a heads up on the questions? I'll help you work on the jeep this weekend if you do.”

The conversation devolves after that, into the same lunch table conversations Chris and Peter have participated in a hundred times before, and in another ten minutes the bell rings.

Fifth period starts out great. Fifth period starts out wonderful. Fifth period starts with Peter and Chris ditching fifth period and finding out the supply closet is still in the exact same place it's always been. Peter laughs as Chris pushes him up against the wall and then groans and threads his fingers through his hair when Chris nudges his chin up with his nose and mouths down the column of his throat.

Fifth period does not end well. Because no one bothered to tell him the school had fucking _cameras_ now. He's barely even gotten his hands on Peter when the door crashes open and he and Peter find themselves being hauled down to the office by a surly man in an athletic suit muttering about _stupid kids_ and _I'm a coach not a hall monitor_.

He dumps them in the office and spends thirty seconds glaring at them before asking, “Do either of you play any sports?” then leaves before they can answer.

Peter raises an eyebrow. “Freak.”

  
  


* * * * * * * * *

The lobby is quiet when Sheriff Stilinski opens the door to pick up Stiles for his dental appointment. It's a nice change of pace, and he does his best not to think of other times here, when there was blood on the floor, or screams in the hall, or when he'd been kidnapped by a freaking _Darach_ , for God's sake. One day he figures he'll stop having nightmares about that. He hopes.

Jenna's away from her desk when he steps into the office, a pair of teenagers in the “hot seats” against the wall. He doesn't pay them much attention as he gets a start on filling out the log book, but the half an ear he pays to their conversation is amusing.

“I can't believe they called them.”

“I can't believe they have freakin' cameras. What school does that?”

“I should steal us some earplugs. Their bitching is already old. Fucking hypocrites.”

“You're going to end up in jail. Probably that guy's jail.”

“I'm too good to get caught.”

Sheriff Stilinski starts paying a bit more attention.

“You're a cocky asshole, you know that?”

There's laughter, and then the wet, slick sound of kissing. He rolls his eyes. _Seriously, kids?_

“No, _you're_ the smug, cocky one. I'm the rebellious, _confident_ one. Keep it straight, Petie.”

Sheriff Stilinski starts, then carefully puts the pen down.

“Shut up, you dummy.”

There's more kissing sounds, and Sheriff Stilinski slowly turns until he's facing the teenagers, who are tongue deep in each others mouths. That...is unexpected. _Christ_.

He puts his hands on his hips and clears his throat. The two of them jump apart, but then slouch sullenly in their seats, arms crossed over their chests as they stare at him defiantly.

“Can we help you?” Peter asks, just as haughty as he remembers. Honestly, not much has changed about that.

“Chris. Peter,” he says evenly. “Even Beacon Hills has a limit on the amount of PDA in school. And I thought you two were supposed to be keeping a low profile right now.”

Chris looks him over. “Do we know you?”

He taps a finger against his name badge.

Their eyes widen.

And then they burst into gut wrenching laughter.

“...Stilinski?”

“...You're a _cop_?”

“...somebody gave you a _gun_?”

“Ha ha ha ha ha,” he deadpans. “ _Ha_.” He lowers his voice to a whisper, feeling uncharacteristically petty and juvenile. “And since somebody made you a hunter and let _you_ be a werewolf, I think this is the pot calling the kettle black.”

That sobers them right up, the fact that he _knows_ , and the three of them spend the next thirty seconds assessing each other with narrowed eyes. Then Chris grins again.

“Dude. You got _old_.”

  
  


* * * * * * * * * * *

  
  


Chris stands outside the restaurant for a good ten minutes before finally steeling himself and walking inside. For the first time in a long while, he's not looking forward to the evening, but this has been a standing date every Wednesday for months, and they had long ago made the agreement not to reschedule every time a new monster of the week showed up. So there's no getting around it. He slides into a chair and takes his coat off before raising his head and looking across the table at where Melissa and the sheriff are silently watching him. Neither of them say anything, although Melissa's mouth is quirked in a way that hints at amusement.

After a minute he clears his throat and picks up the menu. "I don't want to talk about it. I just want to eat."

“Well, too bad,” the sheriff grouses, “because I do. Wanna tell me why I went to pick Stiles up today and found you and Peter --” he pauses and makes a face, “--how about we call them the juniors? Avoid confusion. Wanna tell me why I found them with their tongues down each others throats?”

Chris closes his eyes and prays for patience. Or to disappear. There has to be a spell for that. “I would think the answer would be obvious.”

“Do you understand the images I have in my head now? Melissa McCall, you stop laughing right this second. It is _not_ funny.”

Melissa presses her lips together, but her shoulders are still shaking as she tries to get herself back under control. There's a pitcher of beer in the middle of the table and she slides it over to Chris. “You should probably start drinking.”

It's the best idea anyone has had all day, especially after the humiliation of having to meet with the principal because his _wards_ had been caught skipping class and making out in a _supply closet_. The little bastards were totally unrepentant, too, while Peter had sat next to him and spun out a “boys will be boys” and “their grief is making them act out” line of bullshit. Chris had, as usual, been left holding the responsibility bag and promising to make sure the boys understood the seriousness of the issue.

How is this his _life_?

He fills his glass and takes a long drink, while the sheriff continues to list out his grievances. “Also, he punched my kid, Chris.”

Chris raises an eyebrow. “The junior me. Punching someone. Wow. What a surprise.” Stilinski scowls at him and Chris sighs. “Look, what do you want me to say? They were already upset. Stiles insulted Peter. Junior Peter. Of course he was going to hit him. You have to admit Stiles can be an acquired taste.”

The sheriff looks like he has more to say on the subject, but Melissa chooses that moment to interrupt. Probably on purpose. “How is Allison dealing with all of this?”

Chris clears his throat again and studies his menu intently. “Okay. I guess.”

“What do you mean 'you guess?'”

Chris feels like he's five years old again, and Mrs. Matheson is demanding to know why he cut off one of Maggie's braids with a pair of hedge clippers. Which is to say he feels a bit like slinking under the table. Instead he lifts the menu up higher and debates between a hamburger and an order of hot wings. “I mean I don't really know. Wehaven'ttalkedaboutit.”

He's left holding nothing but air as Melissa jerks the menu away and fixes him with a steely glare, and now it's Stilinski's shoulders that are shaking with repressed laughter.

“Christopher Argent! Are you telling me it's been _three days_ and you have yet to talk to your child?”

“It's really only been two days,” he mutters. “And I've talked to her. On the phone.”

“Tonight will be the third night Scott's spent at the apartment, so we're going with three days. And the phone does _not_ count. Do you get how hard this probably is for her? Getting hit in the face with this? I'm pretty sure the three of us have had _numerous_ conversations about needing to communicate with our children, Mr. Emotionally Constipated!”

“And how long did it take _you_ to talk to Scott after you found out?” he shoots back.

“ _Exactly_. Which is why we all decided we were going to do _better_ , remember?”

The sheriff raises his hand. “Hey, I'd like to point out I talked to my son just as soon as I found out.”

Chris shoots Stilinski a dirty look, but the sheriff just shrugs unrepentantly. Chris scrubs a hand over his face. “Christ, Melissa, I know, okay? I get this is probably hard for her. I get it that she probably feels like I lied to her.” He supposes he did lie to her, at least by omission, but that's been an Argent family trait for so long it's hard to remember normal families don't keep so many secrets. He's been doing better – he _has_ – but it's a continual work in progress. “Do you have _any_ idea how hard this is for me? I dealt with this a long time ago. The last thing I want to do is talk to Allison about the fact that the psycho who killed her aunt used to be my _boyfriend_. I don't even want to _think_ about it, okay?”

Melissa nods. “I understand.” He wants to think he's gotten off the hook, but he knows better. “But this isn't really about _you_ , is it? This is about _Allison_. And your relationship with her. And yeah, it wont' be fun, but you owe it to her. So suck it up, be an adult, and talk to your child. Or you're gonna screw up everything you've worked for the last year and a half. And nobody wants that.”

The server shows up then, and Chris has the time it takes for them to give their orders to think about what she'd said. She's right, of course, and it's not like he didn't already _know_. He'd just wanted to avoid it for as long as possible. When the server leaves, he takes another swig of his beer and gives a firm nod. “Alright. Fine. I'll talk to her. Tomorrow.” Melissa opens her mouth and he cuts her off. “I _promise_.”

“Good. Now, on to more important things.” Melissa laces her fingers together, rests her chin on them, and bats her eyelashes dramatically. “Tell me, Chris. Just what was it like the first time you kissed Peter Hale? Did angels sing?”

Chris bangs his head against the table as Melissa and Stilinski dissolve into cackling laughter. “Oh my god, I hate you both so much,” he groans. “So very much.”

  
  


* * * * * * * * * * *

  
  


  
  


 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next Chapter:
> 
> _Burglary!_
> 
> _Mayhem!_
> 
> _Derek shows up!_
> 
> _bb!Peter comes face to face with Allison! Alone!_
> 
> _...and more!_


	10. Chapter 10

 

For once, Chris and Peter are actually alone. Peter's alter ego is upstairs in the shower, and Chris' had left to go...somewhere that had never been explicitly explained, but that had made Peter snort and roll his eyes and call, “Have fun with that,” as Chris walked out the door. And then stare at the door for a long minute after, fingers tapping on the counter in a way that Peter knows means he's upset about something.

He doesn't understand how he and Chris could have lost each other so completely that they can't even read obvious body language. Chris..now Chris, _his_ Chris – Peter still feels smugly triumphant he gets to say that – would have known in two seconds something was wrong.

Or maybe they know and they just don't care. That's even more depressing and he pushes the thought away to focus on the task at hand – the task being the books and papers spread out all across the floor and coffee table, because he and Chris had been “fortunate” enough to get shoved into school right as the end of the year history reports were being assigned, and their teacher had been _kind_ enough to partner them together.

Peter is reminded all over again why, while he may love Chris – and he does, _God_ how he does – he generally avoids doing group projects with him like the plague. Chris is smart, far smarter than he likes to believe, but he also gets distracted so easily it drives Peter _insane_. Right now he's sprawled on his back across one sofa, staring at the ceiling and repeatedly tossing into the air a hacky sack he's mysteriously acquired. He's _supposed_ to be researching 17th century interpretations of Shakespeare.

Peter shifts around from his position on the floor and props his chin on Chris' shoulder. “Chrisssstopher,” he rolls out, in his most annoying voice. “I'm not doing all the work by myself.” He stretches out a hand and snatches the hacky sack from the air. “Come on.”

Chris shrugs but doesn't move. “Why? It's not like we'll be here to present it anyway.”

“Not the point. We have an outline due in two days.” He grabs Chris' arm and tugs and pulls until Chris relents and moves to a sitting position. He rests his elbows on his knees and finally looks at Peter.

“How do you think they know my father? He's not here. Can't be. He wouldn't let this -” he looks around the room, indicating the living situation, “-happen. Or Allison and Scott. I thought...he would have to be dead.”

Peter should have known this was where Chris' mind was. He hates Chris' father. Hates him with a kind of passion he'd never known he was capable of, not until he'd realized what Gerard was doing to Chris. Seen the way Chris would sink into himself, turn into something shut down and frozen anytime Gerard was around. It had been a full year before Peter had really begun to suspect what all those cuts and bruises Chris sported had come from. Another six months before Chris had even remotely admitted it. Now he knows some were from hunts gone bad, but the rest -

Peter fucking _hates_ Gerard. If it had just been the physical... No, Peter would still despise him. But it's how screwed up Chris' head is because of Gerard that really tempts Peter on full moon nights. Not like Peter's head, which is a mess all its own – he knows that, even if no one else does. But in the way that, in contradiction to the face he shows the world, Chris honest to god believes his worth can be measured in bullets and kills. That unless he performs he's useless.

Sometimes Peter thinks he might kill Gerard, if only Chris would give him permission.

But he shrugs in response to Chris' question. “I don't know. Maybe he is. We can ask Stiles, when Lydia isn't around. Or Isaac. I think Isaac would spill.” Their best bet is the other kids. They're not nearly as careful as they should be, not with the secrets they carry. Talia would kick his ass if he were as careless as everyone here. He's not surprised Danny figured things out. With so many unrelated werewolves in such a small area, it's a wonder the entire school doesn't know. It's a wonder Chris is the only hunter in town. He has to be keeping other hunters away somehow. And no way Gerard would be a part of that.

“Yeah, maybe.” Chris still looks far away and unfocused, so Peter scoots in between his legs and kneels up so that they're face to face.

“Why do you want to know? What does it matter? I mean, do you actually _want_ to see him? _Here_?” 

Chris' lip reddens as he chews on it and then nods. “Yeah.”

“ _Why_?” Christ, Peter would think this would be the one place they could actually escape the shadow of Gerard. Not have to worry about him for one freaking second for once.

“Because,” Chris bursts out fiercely, hands suddenly clenching into fists as he looks earnestly at Peter. “I want him to _know_. About _you_. For once I want him to _know._ I hate...I hate having to hide you all the time, and they won't let him hurt us here. Because it will affect _them_. So he should _know_.”

Peter has doubts about anyone's ability to stop Gerard, but Chris looks as hopeful as he's ever seen him when Gerard's name is in the mix, so he just grins widely and raises one eyebrow. “Why, Christopher Argent! I think that's the most romantic thing you've ever said to me.”

Chris blushes beet red, from the tips of his hair all the way down his neck, and he shoves at Peter's shoulder. “Shut up.”

“No, seriously!” Peter slinks forward, pushing Chris backward until he's slouched against the back of the couch and Peter is straddling his lap. “I still don't think you need to see him, but it's kind of adorable you'd do that for me.”

Chris' hands are on his hips and as Peter watches, his blush slowly recedes and he sobers, looking up at Peter through thick lashes. “I should tell him for real. At home. I shouldn't be so pathe-”

Peter claps a hand over his mouth. “Don't. Don't you dare say it. Again, I appreciate the thought, but I don't actually have a death wish.” And no amount of satisfaction at seeing Gerard's face would be worth what he would do to _Chris_. They just have to be patient. Bide their time.

“I'd kill him if he tried to hurt you. I swear.” Chris' face is dead serious. Just a little scary if Peter's being honest. Scary and _hot_. And it drives Peter _insane_ that Chris is willing to stand up for _him_ , but not for himself. But it's always been that way, for as long as they've been friends.

“I know,” Peter settles on, letting Chris tug him down until they're breathing each others air and all Peter can see is the brilliant sea green of Chris' eyes. He's just about to close the final gap between their mouths when the doorbell rings, followed by a fist pounding on the front door.

He sits up, exchanging a cautious look with Chris as the pounding repeats, followed by a harsh, angry voice.

“Open the door, Peter. I know you're home.”

They hadn't been told to expect anyone, and his current self seems to have made enough enemies that Peter is leery of answering.

“For God's sake.” It's punched out, graveled with aggravation and exasperation. “I can hear you _breathing_. Don't ask me to find things out and then not answer the _godda-”_

“Boys!” Peter's voice is an irritated snap from the loft's upper floor. “Answer the door before he has a conniption. He's like an over stimulated puppy. Liable to pee on the thing if we make him wait too long. I'll be down in thirty seconds.”

Peter and Chris share another look, and only after Chris gives a small nod does Peter slide off his lap and pad over to the door. He opens it to reveal a man in his twenties, with fierce, overgrown eyebrows, and a face that looks like it was carved from stone. Angry, angry stone. Those eyebrows draw together as he stares at Peter, and then the angry melts into bewilderment, followed by something just the smallest bit sad.

“You're Peter,” he finally says, and his voice is so much softer than it had sounded through the door.

Peter's already drawing in a deep breath – it's instinctual, the need to scent and categorize and file a person away. But this man's scent is _already_ tagged and sorted. Already familiar. It still takes him another second to place it, because this brooding shell of a man -of a _werewolf_ – is a far cry from the two year old who climbs all over Peter every time he sits down and is secretly his favorite of all his family.

Peter steps back to let him in while turning to Chris, who's gathered up all their papers and is standing guardedly by the couch, eyes watchful for any misstep, any threat. He says delightedly, “Chris, it's Derek!” Chris has yet to meet Derek, because he's still so small that Talia keeps him mainly to the house to avoid missteps, but he's heard plenty about him.

Peter closes the door, spins back to Derek. “Look at you. You're like a _mountain!_ And three days ago you were making Laura put pigtails in your hair. Bet you don't remember that, do you? You look _good,_ although maybe cut back on the Heathcliff a bit – we don't have to fill _all_ the werewolf cliches you know.” It's overwhelming and fantastic, being with family, with _pack_ again, and it immediately settles the small parts of him that Chris could not.

Peter isn't normally physically demonstrative with his family – it's just one more thing that marks him as strange, as apart from the rest of them, as foreign to his entire race that thrives on touch and feel to bind their packs – but he has the urge to hug his surly nephew. The fact that Derek is now staring at him with wary, guarded eyes holds him back from the impulse, but for just a minute he basks in the feeling of completeness – Chris at his back and family at his side.

A voice from behind him shatters the illusion of wholeness.

“I wouldn't be too happy to see him. After all, he _did_ slit your throat. All the way from ear to ear. Not to mention he's the reason Kate was able to burn our house down. Murder our entire family. Oh,” Peter gestures to Chris as he makes his way down the staircase, “and he did kill your wife. More or less.”

His position on the staircase is the perfect vantage point for Peter to take in the scene. Derek, confused and pulled equally strong in the directions of disdainful mistrust and pathetic hope. He lacks clarity, focus, and because of that Peter will always be able to push him exactly where he needs him to go. And speaking of pathetic...he can barely stand to look at his younger self, still clinging to this ridiculous notion of happily ever after.

The urge to break him, to grind him down, to crush him until every bit of light in his eyes is extinguished beneath the weight of his disillusionment is so overwhelming that it's almost a relief when Derek predictably bristles and spits out, “She killed herself. Her choice.”

Peter tsks as he finishes his descent to the main floor. “Because you bit her. What did you think was going to happen? And really, Derek, abandoning your bite like that? No wonder your betas all left you. Perhaps I wasn't the best alpha out there, but you? You were a _spectacular_ failure.”

It's laughable how easy it is to push Derek's buttons, to keep him participating in this tag team game he doesn't even know they're playing. And they're winning, judging by the pained horror with which their audience is regarding them.

“You know I had no choice. She was trying to _kill_ me. To kill _Scott_. Speaking of abandoned bites.”

“Well, having lived through the grizzly murder of a young girl, all because a werewolf _loved_ her – it would tend to make a hunter a bit...twitchy on the trigger when history begins to repeat itself. Especially when it was her own daughter. Don't you think?”

It's one push too far - evidenced by the way Derek's face shuts down - but reminding Derek that he only gets to fuck his current bedmate because he once killed a child makes it perfectly delightful all the same. Almost worth the fact he _might_ have slipped and given away a bit too much information. He'll have to find a way around that.

The two idiot woobies have gravitated to each other of course, as they always do when their starry eyed worldview is challenged, but this time he doesn't mind, because when Derek notices it, his lips turn down in beautiful disgust. His nephew is always more than willing to flail about angrily at the rest of the world's inhabitants, rather than deal with his own self-loathing.

Derek sneers at Peter and Chris' joined hands, at Chris' fingers curved lightly around Peter's thin shoulder. “So it's true. Scott told me, but I honestly thought he was confused. How could you be so _stupid,_ ” he hisses at his young uncle, before turning his ire to Chris.

“So what's the angle? You supposed to burn our house down, too? Because there is a plan, right? That's what you Argent's _do_.”

And oh dear, Peter really hates being caught between disabusing Derek of his faulty notion so that he understands he's the only one stupid enough to fall for a murderous hunter, but thus by extension defending Chris, or letting Derek's accusation stand so that those _children_ suffer just a little bit more, but by default validating Derek's momentary triumph. Decision, decisions. Luckily he's saved from having to make that choice by the sound of a key in the door.

“Oh look!” He claps his hands and rests his hip on the back of the couch. “Argent's back.”

“You gave him a _key_?” Derek's disbelief is a tangible thing, and Peter certainly isn't about to tell him Chris has had a key for months, ever since they begrudgingly realized they would occasionally have to work together to keep Beacon Hills from imploding around their ears. He's thankfully never had cause to use it before, but Peter prefers to plan for all eventualities. And he had been doing so _well_ before this little... _incident_. It's making him make mistakes, and he can't afford that.

Chris seems to spend an inordinate time on the lock before the door finally opens and he enters the room. He takes the scene in in one fell swoop and then gives a tiny shrug as he closes the door behind him. While his walk is straight enough and his eyes seem fairly clear, there's a certain looseness to his shoulders that isn't often there, and Peter can smell the alcohol wafting off him.

“Christopher!” Even using his christian name doesn't phase him, which just confirms Peter's guess. “Driving under the influence? How irresponsible. I'm _appalled_.”

Chris' smile is brief, the barest press of lips. “I didn't. Melissa dropped me off.” Peter feels a flash of...something – annoyance he thinks – as Chris continues. “She would have come up but, well -” This time his smile is full - “she hates you.” He makes his way to the couch and flops down, throwing his feet up on the coffee table and spreading his arms across the back. “Did I miss anything important, or are we all just throwing insults at each other?”

Peter moues, shifting a bit to avoid the brush of Chris' fingertips against his thigh. “Mainly just the insult part. But Derek here would like to know exactly what dastardly deed you were planning back in high school. Seems to think you would never have wanted in my pants otherwise. Insulting if you ask me.”

Chris snorts, rolling his head back to give Peter a look that says he knows exactly what Peter's playing at. Not entirely surprising. But then to Peter's delight, he decides to _play along_.

“You're getting confused, Derek.” Argent points lazily to Chris, who is watching the byplay with an increasingly angry eye. “See, he loved Peter. Kate _used_ you. Two different things.”

If they were younger, this would definitely be the moment for a high five, but as it is, Chris just settles deeper into the couch with a nasty smirk. His hand falls limp again, knuckles brushing Peter's jeans, and that's the moment he abruptly seems to realize how close they are to one another.

A wall slams down behind Chris' eyes and he leans forward, fingers steepled together in front of him as his face goes cold and focused, all attention on Derek. Disappointing, but not unexpected. It would ruin Chris' carefully cultivated constipation if he actually enjoyed himself. At least not unless he's with his little parents' club, of course.

“You talked to her.” Argent isn't asking; there's no reason to. Derek wouldn't be here unless he had.

“She said she it wasn't her. I _told_ you it wasn't.” But there's more. Peter can see it in the way Derek's jaw grinds.

“But-?” he prompts, after Derek doesn't seem like he's going to be forthcoming and Peter can practically feel Argent coiling to spring. His area rugs are too expensive to get bloody.

The words drag out of Derek, slow and unwilling. “But she knows who did.”

“Who?” Argent leans forward even further, anticipation of something at which to finally aim clear in his face. Even Chris and his idiot boyfriend look invested in the answer. And Peter certainly is.

Unfortunately, they're all disappointed. “She won't tell me.” Derek looks ready for a fight and at this point Peter is all too ready to give it to him.

“Again, let me suggest: let's torture her.”

“You lay one finger on her and I'll kill you.”

“Yes, because that worked out so well for you last time.”

“Enough!” Argent makes a cutting motion with one hand. “Both of you! Derek -” His voice is dangerously calm, in a way that says he's making a conscious effort to control himself. “-what exactly did she say?”

“She said to tell you she's threading the needle. She said you would understand what she means.”

If anything, Argents' face gets even colder. “Oh, I understand. You tell _her_ that threading the needle is what you say to people when you need them to leave you alone just long enough for you to accomplish your goal.” He stands up. “ _Suggest_ she reconsider, or I might just side with Peter on this one.” He glares hard at Derek one more time before striding across the room and out onto the balcony. He slams the sliding door shut so hard behind him, the glass shakes.

If he ends up breaking it, Peter is going to _kill_ him.

  
  


* * * * * * * * * *

The breeze on the long, narrow balcony is cool, and it helps clear some of the haze left from the pitcher of beer he and Melissa and Stilinski had shared (shared might be too generous a word; Melissa and Stilinski had had a mug apiece while leaving Chris with the rest).

Everywhere he looks there are dead ends. Nothing in his own family's bestiary. Nothing in the Hale family records. And unless he actually follows through with his threats and Peter's suggestion – and he is _sorely_ tempted at this point – Jennifer won't be talking anytime soon.

Deaton and Marin – they keep texting Scott pictures of sunny beaches and the two of the striking poses in front of tourist attractions, yet they can't manage to pick up their goddamn phones anymore.

He buries his head in his hands and resists the urge to bang it on the railing. It could get to be a bad habit if this situation isn't resolved soon.

The sliding glass door to the balcony opens and closes behind him, and then there's the snick of a lighter and the pungent, dirty smell of cigarette smoke.

“Those things will kill you, you know.” Chris offers quietly.

“Apparently not,” his younger self shoots back, as he comes to lean against the balcony railing beside Chris. He takes a long drag before continuing. “Derek left.”

Chris grunts noncommittally. He has nothing he cares to say about Derek Hale, who he can't in good conscience blame for his wife's death, but who he still can't quite absolve. And that's without factoring in what he had done to Isaac and Erica and Boyd.

They stand in silence, the boy beside him burning through an entire cigarette and starting another. Out of the corner of his eye, Chris sees him grow increasingly restless as the time passes, shooting Chris covert looks under the guise of ashing his cigarette into one of Peter's ridiculous potted trees.

Finally, Chris straightens and wraps his hands around the railing. “Go ahead and say it. Your fidgeting is giving me a headache.”

He's opened a floodgate. The kid jerks around to face him and bursts out, “Don't you _miss_ him? Touching him? Kissing him? Even just _talking_ to him? He's your best friend!”

Chris shivers, keeping his eyes fixed on the city lights. “Don't worry, kid. I'm doing just fine.”

“No, you're _not_! You're _me_ , okay? You think I don't know what I'm feeling? You think I can't tell when I'm totally fucked up in the head? And you are screwed up! So is he! He's _hurting_. He wouldn't be so nasty if he wasn't! You could _help_ him!”

Chris snorts. “The last thing Hale is doing is hurting. I can promise you that, kid.”

“His name is _Peter._ And you're a _liar_. I can see it, which means _you_ can see it. You promised. You promised to keep him safe. We _promised_!”

“Well, we didn't, did we?” He slides the pack of cigarettes off the balcony, shakes one out until he can pluck it the rest of the way with his lips, and holds out his hand until his younger self complies and hands him his lighter. His lungs protest at the first inhale, the burn close to a stranger after all these years, but the next is easier, as his body readjusts to the familiar cadence.

He leans his forearms on the rail, ashing onto the city streets below. “That in there? Kid, that's not your Peter. And it's certainly not mine. That's a monster. And chances are, one of us will kill the other one day soon.” He should have killed Peter long, long before now. He knows that.

The boy at his side is furious, all spitfire and righteous indignation, body practically shaking as he clenches his fists and glares at Chris. Chris can't find it in himself to hold it against him, not when he can remember so clearly how it felt.

“You wouldn't. You can't.”

“Wouldn't I? Can't I?” Chris says mildly.

His younger self bares his teeth in an angry sneer, and Chris prepares himself to deal with the inevitable string of creative threats. But then his face clears, becomes unexpectedly calm. He shakes his head, voice utterly confident.

“No. You wouldn't.” He throws his butt over the balcony and goes back inside, leaving Chris alone.

He leans on the railing again, a tiny smile playing across his lips. The pack of cigarettes are still there, and he crushes his butt out beside it before pulling another one out. Behind him, the door slides opens again, and while all of his instincts scream at him to drop his hand to the the butt of the gun at his side, he holds completely still until Peter comes up next to him.

Peter's mouth turns up at an amused tilt. “Falling back into old habits, I see. What's next? Should I expect to see you wearing eyeliner by this time tomorrow? I have to say, I'm not sure it goes with the whole 'boring, responsible adult' gig you've got going on these days.”

Chris refuses to rise to the bait, just offers the pack to Peter. Peter had never been a smoker, not really, not unless the paper contained something a bit stronger than tobacco, but Chris had occasionally been able to cajole him into joining. Peter doesn't do anything for a few seconds, just looks at him, but then he rolls his eyes, jerks the pack from Chris' hand, and shakes a cigarette out between his fingers.

Old habits indeed.

It's silent for awhile, a thick cloud of smoke surrounding them as they neither talk nor acknowledge each other, and then Peter says bluntly, “We have to get rid of them.”

Chris does not disagree. “We're doing everything we can.”

“It's not good enough.”

“Really?” The frustration swirling inside him finally seethes out through clenched teeth and curled lips. “Well, if you've got some better ideas, I'm all ears.”

“Actually, I do.” He toys with the cigarette between his fingers, letting it burn down on its own far more than he's bringing it to his mouth. “We're going to make a little visit to Deaton's house.”

“You want us to break into Deaton's,” Chris says flatly. “You want us to break into an emissary's house.”

“Why not? An emissary is responsible. Deaton has hundreds of years of records he's accumulated. And the man always knows more than he says. There has to be some kind of precedent for this, and if he won't help us, then we help ourselves.”

“You think he's involved?”

Peter shakes his head. “Doubtful. My bet's still on the bitch. But Deaton isn't above keeping his mouth shut, either. Look at the last two years.”

Again, Chris doesn't disagree. But then none of them have been stellar examples of open communication. When he doesn't respond, Peter presses his point. “Do you really want to wait until he shows back up to figure this out? Two weeks? Watching _that_?” Not like there's any question to what he's referring, but he gestures behind him in disgust all the same. “In and out, Argent. Thirty minutes. An hour at the most.”

Later, Chris will blame the alcohol.

“Fine. But I have to talk to Allison first. I promised.”

  
  


* * * * * * * *

  
  


Fourth period is dragging on immeasurably, and Allison is sketching up a design for a wrist cuff that hides a set of razor blades and a wire garrote when Brianna leans over and says, without preamble, “Okay, I have to say this. Your dads are hot. I mean, old and stuff, but hot.”

Allison blames her recent lack of sleep for the fact she doesn't immediately catch on. “Who?”

“Your dads. I saw them when they dropped Chris and Peter off this morning. Who, by the way, are _also_ hot. I don't suppose either of them swings both ways? Willing to switch teams?”'

“Oh my _God._ ” She hunkers down and hisses across the aisle. “He is _not_ my dad. And they are _not_ together.”

“If you say so,” Brianna says skeptically. “Still, they're total DILFs.”

Allison darts a look in front of her. Chris' shoulders are shaking with silent laughter, and she kicks his seat violently. He doesn't even turn around, just lazily flips her off over his shoulder. She leans back over to Brianna and says conspiratorially. “I don't know about Peter, but Chris likes girls. You totally have a chance.”

His next flip off carries a lot more vehemence. He twists around to face them and smiles toothily at Brianna. “Go ahead. Give it a try. Peter'll rip your intestines out.”

Brianna shoots Allison an alarmed and nervous look at the same time Mr. Blanchard calls from the front of the room. “Mr. Armbruster, eyes front, please.” Chris' smile widens into something predatory for half a second before he turns back around. Allison reaches across the aisle to pat Brianna's arm.

“Did I mention all the therapy he's in?”

The bell rings soon after. Chris bolts just as fast as he had yesterday, and Allison takes off after him. She catches up halfway to the cafeteria and hisses “You can _not_ run around threatening people!”

He shrugs, unconcerned. “That was your fault. And it wasn't a threat.”

Everyone else is already at the table, Peter and Lydia engaged in an intense argument over whether or not time travel would be possible using strictly scientific methods. Allison and Chris drop their trays with twin slams, bringing the debate to an abrupt halt. Peter's entire attention diverts, and he leans his forehead against Chris' temple and starts whispering in his ear.

Lydia, on the other hand, takes one look at Allison's expression and points to an empty table across the lunchroom. “Let's move. I don't like this table anyway.”

Allison makes a face but shakes her head. “I promised my dad. I leave and they get in trouble again, he'll probably kill me.”

A fork clatters to the table and she looks up to see Chris staring at her. If she didn't know better, she'd say he looked _scared_. Peter murmurs a low _Christopher_ , and puts a hand around his wrist.

“Would he?”

She blinks, not following his train of thought. “Would he what?”

Chris clears his throat and shrugs, looks down at his tray and then back at her, although his eyes are focused over her shoulder instead of on her face. “Kill you? Kick your ass, or whatever. You know.”

“What? _No!_ What's wrong with you? Have you ever heard of a figure of speech? Why would you even ask that?” Weirdo.

Chris shrugs again, but his shoulders have relaxed and whatever had been in his face before is gone, replaced by his normal cocksure attitude. He picks his fork up and digs back into his food without comment, shoulder pressed tight to Peter's.

Across the table, Isaac reaches out a hand, like he's thinking about touching Chris. Peter shoots him a venomous look and he jerks it back, but he watches Chris for the rest of lunch the same way he watches badly wounded pets at Dr. Deaton's, with a mix of pained empathy and deep compassion that she would have never thought him capable of, back in the days he and Erica and Boyd were trying their best to kill Lydia.

But even with all of those clues, even with all the pieces practically laid out in front of her, it isn't until she's sitting in sixth period that everything finally clicks.

  
  


* * * * * * * *

The cookies are almost done when Chris hears Allison come home. He listens as her book bag and purse thud to the couch, and by the time she walks into the kitchen, he's leaning against the counter, hands shoved in his pockets.

She takes in the smell of cookies and the hot chocolate simmering away on the stove. “Wow, you must really feel bad.”

He turns to pull two mugs from the cabinet, and hands one to her. “I do.” It's tradition in their family, the making up of quarrels and the healing of hurts over cookies and cocoa. “I'm sorry. Forgive me?”

Her mouth twists and he can see she's trying to fight a smile. “I don't know.” The timer goes off and she gestures to the oven. “Those chocolate chip?”

He shakes his head as he grabs the oven mitts. “Peanut butter.”

“Oh, well then, definitely forgiven.”

She pours the cocoa as he moves the cookies to the cooling rack, and when they're both done, he pulls her into a tight hug and lets the relief wash over him when she hugs him back. “I'm so sorry,” he says into her hair. “I handled it badly. I promise I'll do better.”

She nods and he lets her go, grabbing both their mugs and walking them to the table. She sits down across from him and wraps her hands around her cup. “I probably didn't handle it very well, either.”

“With good reason.” She looks as tired as he feels, so he backs away to safer waters. “How was your day?”

“Well, you flipped me off, so there's that. You know, you were kind of a jerk when you were younger.”

He presses his lips together to hide a smile, amused despite himself. “The circle of people I cared about then was very small.”

“Like Peter.”

He nods, because this is what they're here for. “Yes. Like Peter.”

He expects her to follow that line of questioning, to want to know the hows and whys. He's braced himself for it. So he's totally unprepared when she asks, slow and careful like she's feeling it out -

“Dad, did Gerard hurt you?”

He forgets to breath, and his hands still, pressed flat on the table. “Why would you ask that?”

“Not important,” she deflects. “Did he?”

His jaw works as he stares at her. Picks his cup of hot chocolate up and blows gently across its surface. Finally he answers simply. “Yes.” And besides his wife and Peter, she's the only other person he's ever actually told. He supposes if anyone deserves to know, it's her.

“Bad?”

It's funny, he thinks, that people always want to divide it into gradients. Is a slap better than a punch? A kick better than being thrown into a wall? Is being told you're were a waste of your mother's pain better than a bloody lip?

As if somehow, if a scale can be established, you don't have to feel quite so badly when you hear someone's story. Even if it's your own. But he can't blame her; after all, he'd done the same for years.

“Bad enough, I suppose. He considered it training.”

She's working through it, her eyes narrowed and unfocused as she looks at him. He likes to think that's something she got from him. “That's why you and mom moved away. Why I didn't see him for so long.”

“Partly. But we were hoping you could grow up like everyone else. Be an adult before you learned about all of this. Your family. The hunting.” His laugh is short and tinged with bitterness. “It didn't quite work out as we'd hoped.”

“And Isaac. It's why you always let him hang around. You never fought on him like you do with Scott. Why you helped Ms. McCall convince him to go to therapy.”

He rolls his eyes and takes a sip of his drink. “Not everything connects back to Gerard, Allison. The kid needed help. He needed safe places to go.”

“Was Peter your safe place?”

The quick switchback to Peter catches him off guard again, and he uses the excuse of putting the cookies on a plate for time gather his thoughts. After he brings them back to the table, he nods sharply.

“Yes.”

“Why didn't you tell me about Gerard? He couldn't have...I wouldn't have let him -”

How can he explain it to her? The illogical hope that a person will change? That time and distance will somehow soften what all his love for his father could not? How _easy_ it had been to fall back in line, to be the dutiful son, no matter how every part of him screamed in protest. How it had only been when Gerard had sunk his steely talons into Allison, when he had felt his daughter slipping away, that he had found the strength - 

It's something she could never understand. Something he's _glad_ she'll never understand. It means he at least succeeded in something in his life.

He finally settles on “We made a mistake.” A fatal one. His wife's grave is evidence enough of that.

“But he's still here! In this house! You're still protecting him!”

He raises an eyebrow. “We're not protecting him, Allison. We're guarding him. Where else could we let him be? Would you trust him somewhere else? Where we can't keep eyes on him?”

She crosses her arms and slumps back in her chair mulishly. “He should have died.”

Chris can't disagree. “But he didn't.” His bad decisions with Gerard have now become his burden. His responsibility.

Allison takes a cookie, nibbling around the edges before she moves on. “How did you and Peter meet?”

He takes his own cookie, breaking it into pieces as he answers. “It was when we first came to Beacon Hills. First day at school. Eighth grade. We were in science together. Had a teacher that made Mr. Harris look like Mary Poppins. He kept making mistakes. I kept pointing them out.” An unconscious smile curves his lips at the memory. “I was something of a smartass at the time. The teacher got angry, probably rightfully so, and Peter made the mistake of backing me up. We both got detention.

He laughs and closes his eyes, popping a piece of cookie in his mouth. “God, Peter was so pissed at me, you know. He had a _plan_ for his high school experience, and there I was, some asshole new kid, getting him thrown in afterschool because I couldn't keep my mouth shut. Anyway, the teacher left us alone, and I climbed out the window. Told him I was gonna sneak into a matinee. Told him he should come with me.

“For whatever reason, he came. And that was that.”

Allison is watching him carefully, something odd in the tilt of her mouth. “What was the movie?”

“The Breakfast Club,” he answers automatically.

“Wow.” She sits back. “Good memory.”

“I suppose.”

“Lydia says you didn't know he was a werewolf? And the other way around for him?”

He shakes his head. “It probably seems unbelievable now, the Argents and the Hales not knowing about each other. But we didn't move here to hunt, and the Hales had been keeping a low profile for decades. There was just no reason to suspect.”

“Why _did_ Gerard come?”

“Ironically, because he wanted a safe place for me to train. A home base, so to speak. One of the very few mistakes he ever made.”

“What about-” she waves her hand around ephemerally. “-the rest. When did you guys...you know.”

“That didn't happen for a very long time.” Almost at the very end. Things would have been so much easier if they had never taken that step, however inevitable it might have been. Or maybe not. There's really no way to know.

“So...you like guys.”

He barks out a laugh. “Allison, I liked Peter.”

“So it was a situational thing. Like...everybody has their exception.”

“Allison.” She continues to look at him expectantly. “I don't know that I ever sat down and tried to put a label on it.” At least not since those first few panicky days after he had realized he wanted to _do things_ to his best friend. “There was Peter, and there was your mother.” And in between there had been anyone who would let him into their bed. But that had had very little to do with attraction, and even less with love. “I suppose the closest name would be -” he fishes around for a few seconds, “-hetero-flexible? That's the term, right?” He's pretty sure that's the word he's seen floating around on the Internet.

Allison has her face buried in her hand. “I am so sorry I asked. Please never attempt to use popular terminology again, okay?”

He smirks, satisfied, and manages to make it through another cookie and half a cup of cocoa before she starts in again.

“So what happened?”

Ah. What happened. That was the burning question on everyone's tongue these days. He shrugs. “The Hales left town. Peter wouldn't stay.” He backs up and tries to be fair. “Couldn't stay. It's nothing shocking or unusual. Sorry if you were expecting a smoking gun.”

“Bullshit.” Before he can call her on her language she says it again. “That is bullshit, Dad. All this best friends at first sight, attached at the hip crap? The way those two look at each other? _Are_ with each other? Not to mention I'm at least 99% sure you're his anchor. Or at least _were.”_ Chris winces at that and then covers it up by draining the rest of his hot chocolate. _“_ And I'm supposed to believe Peter just...walked away? Bologna.”

“There was a plan,” he says slowly. “There was supposed to be a plan. It didn't happen.” He closes his eyes. “Allison, I really don't want to talk about this anymore, okay? You wanted the story. I gave you the story.”

“My god,” she says, and her tone makes him open his eyes. “That little bastard broke your heart.”

“Language, sweetheart.” The parental fondness in his voice gives way to careful lightness. “Teenagers get their hearts broken all the time. It really wasn't that big of a deal.” He sobers, intent on making sure she understands the importance of his next words. “You understand you can't tell them any of this, right? And not just them, but Stiles or Lydia or even Scott. We have to be very careful until we send them back.”

“Yeah, I know,” she mutters. “Argents are super good at keeping secrets, aren't we?”

He flinches a bit at that, but it's nothing more than the truth. “Yes, I suppose we are. The safety of entire populations have depended on it.”

She nods, then picks at a chip on her mug. Something else is on her mind.

“Allison?”

“Did Mom know?”

He speaks around a mouthful of cookie. “She knew Peter and I had been friends.” But of course Allison hears what he doesn't say.

“But she didn't know about...the other thing.”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because that part of my life was over. There was no reason to. I know you think there was some grand conspiracy to keep you in the dark, but I promise you there wasn't. Nobody _knew_.”

“Peter said – the young one -”

“-We're calling them the juniors-”

“Oh. Okay. Peter Junior said Deaton knew.”

He considers that before conceding. “I can't say for sure. You know Deaton holds his cards close. But probably.”

She looks down at the table, not willing to meet his eyes. “Dad...you and mom..did...did you love -” She trails off, unable to finish.

“Allison.” He reaches out and covers her hand. She still doesn't look up. “Allison. Look at me, okay?” She finally raises her head, and there's so much hurt there, hurt that he's caused, no matter how unintentional. He squeezes her hand tighter. “Sweetheart, if you're wondering if I loved your mother, then don't. I did. Very much. I still do.”

“She told me, you know. A few days before she...before she died.” Allison says it defiantly, like she's challenging him.

“Told you what?” There are a myriad of things Victoria could have decided Allison was ready to hear, in order to begin to prepare her for eventual leadership.

“That Gerard arranged your marriage. Like some medieval _warlord._ ”

If she expects him to deny it, she's going to be disappointed. He snorts out a laugh and nods. “That he did. And although I am certain he didn't intend it – at least not the way it played out – it was the best thing he ever could have done. She saved me.” And if Victoria were around to hear him say that, she would be giving him the biggest stink eye on the face of the planet. Victoria Argent did not exist to be anyone's savior. _You saved yourself, Chris. I just gave you a reason._ Still, as much as she would roll her eyes, it's true. Christ, he misses her so much. Even after all these months her absence is a physical ache.

“Saved you from what?”

This time his smile is small and feels stretched too thin. “From myself. And that's a story for another time.” He thinks Allison can wait another year or two before learning about how pathetically he had fallen apart after giving up on Peter. How, by the time he'd woken up one morning and not recognized the face in the mirror, there had been so much blood on his hands he's not sure he'll ever be able to wash it off. There is a reason he holds so close to the Code.

The hot chocolate is all gone and they're down to the last two cookies. As uncomfortable as the conversation has been, there's been some kind of catharsis in it as well. His teeth don't feel quite so much on edge and he no longer feels like he's mere seconds away from coming apart at the seams.

“Okay.” The one word has an air of finality. “I just have one more question.”

He holds up a finger and then arms himself with a cookie. “Alright. Shoot.”

“Do you still have feelings for him?”

He comes close to choking on the crumbs he inhales, but manages to recover without causing a scene. “Allison, the man murdered his niece and my sister, not to mention a swath of other people, and has done nothing but use and manipulate us since.”

She presses her lips together and starts breaking her cookie into pieces. “Aunt Kate kind of deserved it. And Jackson murdered a lot of people, but Lydia still loved him.”

“Jackson had no _choice_. He was being controlled. And Lydia has developed a disturbing pattern of attraction to killers.”

She nods in agreement but then peers at him over her mug. “But _do_ you?”

The sigh he releases is a mix of aggravation and amusement. “I have a lot of feelings about Peter Hale. Mainly involving how exactly we're going to kill him the next time he screws us over.”

“You know that's not actually an answer, right?”

He smiles gently. “It's the best answer I can give you.”

“Okay. Okay.”

They both take a bite of their cookie and chew thoughtfully in silence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just as a reminder, this story goes AU at Visionary. So how Paige's death played out in that episode may not exactly be the case in this world. Armbruster was Victoria's maiden name, and the last name used on the forged documents for bb!Chris. He suggested it because it was a name he was familiar with and could remember.
> 
> I know some readers have been bothered because a lot of the characters aren't exactly being kind, but please understand they are unpacking a lot of baggage that they've mainly ignored until this point. It has to be dealt with and worked through in its own way.


	11. Chapter 11

“So. This is fun.”

Peter doesn't even look up from trying to figure out the brand new, Argent issued cell phone he's holding. “No it isn't. Poking my eyes out would be more fun than this.”

Chris snorts and continues picking sausage off his piece of pizza, his own phone sitting abandoned by his plate. Stiles narrows his eyes at both of them.

“You know who you sound like? Jackson. You don't want to know what happened to Jackson.”

“What happened to Jackson?” Peter dutifully asks, in a supremely bored tone. Chris, however, stops what he's doing and looks up.

“Jackson,” Stiles starts, a small, anticipatory grin in place, “thought _he_ was better than the rest of us, too. Big surprise for him when -”

A sharp kick to his ankle cuts him off short. “God _dammit_ !” he hisses at Isaac, drawing a censoring frown from the mother of two preschoolers at the table next to him. He makes an apologetic face and mouths  _sorry_ before turning his ire back on. “What is it with you people and my ankles! It wasn't like I was actually going to tell them anything!”

Isaac shrugs and sucks on his straw, his stupid scarf still on, even though it's ninety fucking degrees outside. “How was I supposed to know?”

And again, how is this his  _life_ ? Okay, so he actually does know how he got into this particular situation. Because Allison had just looked so worn down and tired when she'd come to him with the request, and even he's not a big enough asshole to try to pawn it off on Lydia and make her spend one on one time with the face that had brainwashed her. He  _is_ , however, enough of an asshole to coerce Isaac into coming, although he's not sure it counts as coercion when he'd barely gotten the sentence out before Isaac had been eagerly agreeing. 

He's starting to question this whole assumption they've been working under that Isaac is completely stable now.

But regardless, that's why he's now sitting at Big Rico's Pizza with Isaac and Chris and Pete, babysitting while Mr. Argent and Peter are off “taking care of some business.” Which he hopes is code for Mr. Argent taking Peter out to the woods and shooting him. (He may have a bit of a grudge against Mr. Argent for the whole wall slamming thing, but he likes him better than Peter, and Allison would be really sad if her dad died, so he doesn't _actually_ want him dead. Peter is a whole different matter.)

Unexpectedly, Pete's head jerks up. There's a speculative, sly gleam in his eyes that immediately puts Stiles on guard. He prepares himself to fend off whatever information gathering attempts he's inadvertently sparked. But Peter just holds up his phone.

“Wait. So you can take pictures on this?”

“Uh, yeah.” Stiles reaches over the table and plucks the phone from Peter. He snaps a flashless photo of Peter and Chris, taps the preview icon, and then hands it back. “See?”

Chris leans over Peter to peer at the screen, a small, almost shy grin on his face. It occurs to Stiles that the two of them probably don't have a lot of photos with each other outside the yearbook, cameras being the pieces of shit they were back in the 80s. Peter looks up at Chris and grins, too. Neither of them say anything, but there's this  _something_ that passes between them that makes Stiles clear his throat and look away. Isaac, on the other hand, is staring like he  _can't_ look away, and Stiles repays his earlier favor with a swift, sharp kick to the shin.

Isaac gives him a dirty glare, and when Stiles looks back across the table, Chris is helping himself to another two slices of pizza and Peter is back to looking at him, that same unnerving glint in his eyes.

“And I can send pictures to other phones?”

“Sure. Pictures, texts, videos. Whatever. Why?”

Peter shrugs. “Just curious.” The tiny half smirk he's wearing says that's not it at all, but Stiles can't think of anything even remotely close to Peter levels of evilness that could be accomplished with a phone camera, and Peter has already moved on to another subject.

“So you're dating my niece?”

Isaac snorts and Stiles makes a face. “I prefer to think of her as Derek's sister, thank you very much.” Especially since, if his calculations are right, Cora wasn't even  _born_ when Peter was seventeen.

“But she's your girlfriend?”

Stiles vacillates on the answer, his gesture caught somewhere between a shake and a nod. “Sort of. I mean, it's a little -”

Isaac, ever so  _helpful_ , breaks in. “Cora won't  _commit_ . Not while she's in South America. And she won't come back until she's sure Derek isn't an asshole anymore. Which means never.”

_Rude._ “You know that's not even true, you dick. She said she was at least coming back for Christmas. And..and you know what? It's perfectly reasonable to wanna...She's a freakin' continent away!”

“Why's she in South America?”

“None of your business!” Stiles snaps at Peter. “You can stop trying, okay? None of us are telling you anything!”

Peter murmurs something under his breath that has Chris cracking up. Stiles knows he's missed an inside joke somewhere, but he's too busy poking back at Isaac to care.

“You know what? You're just jealous because the two people you have a crush on are busy dating each other!”

Isaac rears back, eyes wide and horrified that Stiles would actually say it out loud, would verbalize what has always been an unspoken knowledge between the two of them. Frankly, Stiles is a little horrified at himself, too, but now that he's committed he's going to stay the course. He gets that this is why he has a bit of a reputation as an asshole, but Isaac is a bit of an asshole, too, so he supposes it balances out.

“Maybe you should stop sticking your nose in mine and Cora's business and focus on paying attention to your own mess.”

“They're just my friends, okay?” Isaac's protest is weak, because they both know he's a lying liar. Much like Mr. Argent and Peter were, about knowing each other. Huh. “Just like they're your friends!”

“Yeah, except you wanna kiss 'em and I don't.”

“Wait,” Chris interrupts, “are you guys talking about Scott and _Allison_?”

They both ignore him, because Isaac looks distinctly downcast and now Stiles really does feel bad.

“Too bad they only wanna kiss each other,” Isaac mutters as he traces a line in the table with his finger.

And that is the sad truth of the matter. Allison and Scott had emerged from the mess with the alpha pack stronger than ever and Stiles didn't see anybody getting in on that anytime soon. Especially since as far as he can tell, Scott hovers at about .01 on the Kinsey Scale. 

Stiles slides one of his bread sticks over to Isaac, and then another one for good measure. “You never know what could happen in the future, though, right? I'm a jerk. I'm sorry.”

Isaac's gaze stays downcast for another minute and then he peeks up through his eyelashes at Stiles, humor gleaming in his eyes and a wicked smirk playing at the corner of his mouth. He grabs both bread sticks, stuffs half of each in his mouth and chews noisily. “You are a jerk.”

“Oh my god, you faker!” Stiles punches Isaac in the shoulder. “You're such a _prick_!”

Isaac shrugs unrepentantly and finishes off the bread sticks. Stiles'  _last_ bread sticks. Stiles gets his revenge by taking the last piece of bacon spinach pizza, and, satisfied he's successfully distracted the table from his own relationship woes, turns his attention to eating it as disgustingly fast as possible.

* * * * * * * * *

At Peter's third random question, Chris slips a hand under the table and rests it on Peter's thigh. Threadbare tension is trembling through the muscles under his palm, and he runs his thumb in soothing circles until the quivering slows, then stops. He doesn't get how Stiles and Isaac can't see how close to the edge Peter is. He doesn't even think he's really listening to the answers the two of them are giving, just keeping a steady stream of white noise going to distract himself.

The listening, the noting of facts to be discussed for later – that's what Chris is here for. And despite what Stiles says, they're giving up plenty of information.

Normally he'd attribute the rawness of Peter to the approaching full moon – and that's definitely part of it – but this time he thinks it has more to do with the confrontation with Derek yesterday. Peter has been acting like he's fine, that none of these revelations are even bothering him anymore, but Chris knows better. And Peter knows Chris knows better. Each new thing - each new surprise - has been dragging Peter closer and closer to the cliff, but Chris refuses to let him fall. At least not alone. Chris slides his hand to Peter's knee, to where the fabric is worn almost completely through from Peter picking at it steadily through the day with one, barely there, claw.

Peter leans into him, turns his head and breathes deep while Stiles and Isaac carry on some inane conversation about school and lacrosse – the stupidest fucking game Chris has ever seen – and a little bit more of the wildness leaches from his face.

Them being here, on top of the full moon – a full moon that, thanks to the jump in months and days, is coming less than two weeks after Peter's  _last_ full moon...

Chris doesn't care what their moronic older selves might say; come two nights from now, Peter will be sleeping in his bed.

“Hey.” Stiles breaks through the shell he's been building around himself and Peter. “You knew my dad. Got any good stories?”

“Stories about Stilinski?” Of course they do. It still boggles his mind that Stilinski had grown up to become _sheriff_ of all things. Who in the world would have actually voted to give any of _them_ a weapon? 

He glances at Peter, an idea beginning to formulate in his head. Stiles does seem to know a little bit of everything about everyone. And right now that could come in handy.

“We got a few,” he tells Stiles, leaning on his forearms across the table. “But it's going to cost you. I need some information.”

* * * * * * * * *

“Oh, you have _got_ to be kidding me.” Peter stares down in disdain at the small window well Chris is crouched beside. “What's wrong with the back door? Surely a big, strong, hunter like you can pick a lock and disable the security system.”

Chris holds his tongue between his teeth, the pink tip of it just barely visible between his lips as he deftly slides a dagger between the window latch and then, in one quick move, pushes the window in and up. “It's already disabled. Deaton uses a remote system. I had it turned off before we left your loft.” He folds his body into some impossible kind of contortion and lowers his feet through the window, his forearms holding the bulk of his weight on the lip of the window well.

“So again, _why_ are we passing up a perfectly good back door?”

“Because--” and even with the grunt in his voice that indicates the strain he's putting on his body, Chris' tone is that infinitely patient, infinitely annoying one he gets that makes Peter want to poke and prod and needle him until he breaks. “--Deaton's home is like his clinic. It's got mountain ash built into almost all of the surrounding foundation and door frames. This was the only weak spot.” Chris' voice grows faint as he disappears completely through the window and his fall is broken with the soft thud of his feet. “But please, feel free to give it a try.”

Peter grimaces and follows Chris through the window, opting to keep his face toward the house as he slides in, because in no universe is he going to offer Argent his back. He lands solidly in a crouch, before straightening smoothly and brushing a small spatter of dust from his shirt. They're in a dim cellar, with shelves lining one side and stacked high with cans. He should have known Deaton would be a survivalist. The man always manages to survive, no matter the calamities that had struck the Hales.

“And you knew this how?”

Chris shrugs, mind clearly focused only on their task. “I cased his house months ago. Just like I did the Sheriff's and Melissa's.”

“You _cased_ it? _Cased_ it? What are you, a character in a two bit crime drama? I'm embarrassed for you, Argent.”

“Better to sound like a two bit criminal than to actually be one, Hale,” Chris shoots back absently as they move out the door and up a small set of stairs.

“Oh!” Peter clutches his chest dramatically, rolling his eyes at Chris' back. “You wound me, Argent. There's nothing two bit about me.”

Chris doesn't reply as he walks out the door, and as Peter follows him up the stairs he mourns the fact that his wit is being wasted on a man with no apparent sense of humor. And to think that Argent had once been _fun_.

The stairs pause in the middle of a long hall, continuing on the other side to what he assumes is the main floor. But Chris seems to know exactly where he's going, and instead of going onward and upward, he hooks left and slips through a side door. When Peter catches up, he groans, deep and heartfelt.

“Christ. He must be living in the same dark ages as Derek.” The room is obviously Deaton's office, and one wall of the long, thin space is entirely lined with filing cabinets. “What do these people have against technology?”

Chris snorts loudly, in what Peter would term a laugh in any other person, but, well, this is _Argent_. “Alan likes being able to physically touch the records. He says it reads better. Then something about feeling the original writers' intents. Typical emissary bullshit.”

Chris walks to the first filing cabinet and pulls the top drawer open with perhaps more violence than strictly necessary. “Come on, Hale. I don't want to be here all night.”

Peter joins him, their elbows brushing as he yanks open the cabinet next to Chris with a grinding screech. A deep crease forms between his eyebrows as he reads the file labels. How in the hell are they supposed to find anything in here?

Chris has encountered the same issue, and his breath is a warm vibration in the shell of Peter's ear as he turns a furrowed forehead to him. “Are these damn things organized at all?”

If they are, Peter can't see it. There's an “A” after a “J,” and something about a viking warrior curse – Peter makes a mental note to read that later – right next to a small, slim file holding a baggie with what looks like a blurry picture of an _alien_ of all things.

“This doesn't make sense,” Chris is murmuring, another burst of air puffing against Peter's cheek. Peter shoves at him in an unsubtle attempt to get him to back _off_ , but Chris is either ignoring him, or too caught up in his own irritation to realize he has breached the barrier of polite proximity. “There has to be a system. Deaton's too organized. How would he even find -”

A growling sound of exasperation bubbles up out of Chris throat. “We _are_ going to be here all night.”

“Well,” Peter says lightly, “let's hope Stiles enjoys slumber parties.” He takes another look at the drawer, thumbing through the files in the vain hope that somehow something will make sense. Something...

His eyes narrow and he shuffles back through three files. He tilts his head to the side. Picks back through them again. Maybe...

“Christopher,” he says slowly. “I think it actually makes perfect sense.”

Then Chris is leaning into him, peering over his shoulder as he tries to see what Peter is talking about. “What is - “

Later, Peter will blame the fact that Argent is literally breathing down his neck as the reason he didn't hear someone approaching the house, not until Chris breaks off at the sound of keys jangling in the lock loudly enough that even human ears can hear it.

“ _Fuck_ ,” Chris hisses. He slams both drawers closed, almost catching Peter's fingers in the process. Peter shoots him a venomous look.

Just like his earlier wit, his ire is entirely wasted because Chris is too busy trying to make yelling under his breath a thing. “Go. Go go go!”

They sprint toward the door, and then -

“ _Fuck_ ,” Chris says again, as they freeze at the sound of footsteps on the stairs. Chris grabs Peter's shoulders and spins him around, pushing him toward a closet door set in the wall on the far side of the room.

Peter's hopes that it's a nice, roomy walk-in are dashed when he opens the door to dark, and cramped, and crowded with boxes. He's in the process of balking when a palm on his shoulder blades propels him inside. He's about to make some snide remark about Argent's subconscious desire to manhandle him when the door quietly shuts and he realizes he's trapped in a small space with his back to an Argent _again_. He sweeps away ghost feels of those few desperate seconds after his resurrection before he'd had enough strength to burst through the floorboards and out of his suffocating hole of a grave, and whirls around to face Chris.

The man in question is pressed against the opposite wall, which still only affords them maybe a foot between their bodies. He presses one finger against his lips in a clear _shhhh_ , and Peter reminds himself he's the one with the advantage. He can clearly see Chris' face while _he_ can be nothing but shifting shadows to Argent. He would have Argent sliced from ear to ear before he ever saw it coming.

The footsteps have reached the hallway. Peter tries to catch a scent, but all he can smell is the gun oil Chris used this morning when cleaning his .45, and the sharp tang of the whetstone he used to sharpen the knives at his waist and ankle, and the light, spicy aroma of his aftershave. All mixed up in the stifling smell of _Argent._ He supposes the aftershave is a good sign there won't be any attempts at a surprise vivisection. Chris never wears artificial scents when hunting.

They both breath a little easier when the footsteps turn in the opposite direction of Deaton's office, down the right side of the hall. Peter slouches back against the wall with a quiet sniff.

“How cliché. We're back in the closet.”

Argent grimaces. “Shut up.”

“And speaking of closets -”

“If you say one word about any other closet scenarios I will kill you in the most painful way possible.” Chris is just moving his lips more than actually speaking, but it's easy enough to slip back into a mode of communication they'd once used for years.

“Come now, Argent. Let's at least admit that if you had any intention of killing me, you would have done it months ago. I do find it interesting your mind immediately went to all the dirty little things we could be doing in here.”

He doesn't get a chance to see if Chris would actually attempt to follow through on his threat – even odds, Peter supposes – because Chris unexpectedly clamps his hand over Peter's mouth. Peter shivers at the sudden heat, and his own hand snaps up to circle Chris' wrist as the footsteps in the hall reverse direction and approach the office. The faint murmur of a voice resolves itself into clear words.

“ _No, I don't think you need to come. I thought I heard something when I first came in. I'm just checking it out. Yeah okay, I'll keep the phone on just in case.”_

Wonderful. Scott Fucking McCall. Of course.

Chris glares ferociously at him, and Peter assumes his eyes have finally adjusted in the weak light filtering in under the closet door.

Christ. The _light_.

Right on cue, Scott pipes up again. “ _Deaton's office light is on. Maybe we should call -”_ He cuts off abruptly, and footsteps rapidly cross the room toward their hiding place. _“Wait. It smells like -”_

The closet door jerks open, bathing them in the light of the room and revealing Scott McCall, phone tucked between his shoulder and ear, and fangs and claws out. At least the boy was taking precautions, even if he _was_ talking so loudly the neighbors could hear him.

Chris looks calmly at Scott, his hand still firmly over Peter's mouth. “Scott,” he asks gravely, “what are you doing here?”

Scott's eyes are saucer wide as he retracts his claws and his eyes ping pong between the two of them. Peter would pay good money to know exactly what's going through his Dudley Do Right head at the moment. Likely something scandalous and utterly wrong. Peter wiggles his eyebrows lecherously, doing what he can to help those misconceptions along. Torturing the annoying brats who surround him keeps him sane.

Relatively.

Scott mumbles into the phone. “It's your dad and Peter. Yeah. I'll call you back.”

Chris' fingers tighten against Peter's skin when he realizes it's Allison on the other end, but otherwise his expression doesn't change at all. Scott hangs up and holds up a small cannister filled with tan flakes.

“I feed his fish. What are _you_ doing here?”

“Research,” Chris says evenly, not missing a beat.

“ _Research_? You broke in, didn't you?”

“We didn't have a key.”

Scott shoves his hand in his pocket and jerks out a set of said keys, jangling them loudly. “ _I_ have keys! Why didn't you just ask Deaton? He said he would help!”

Peter is done being excluded from the conversation. He squeezes Chris' wrist, tight enough to leave bruises, and when Chris doesn't even flinch, Peter takes the childish route and licks his palm, making sure to leave a swath of spit in his wake. Chris grunts in disgust, yanking his hand back and wiping it on his pant leg.

Mission accomplished, Peter smiles sweetly at Chris before turning to Scott. “Perhaps we would have, Scott, if the dear veterinarian would ever _answer his calls_. Perhaps we don't have the same definition of _help_.”

Scott shakes his head. “I don't know what you're talking about. I've talked to him all this week. Wait...look.” He rapidly types something on his phone and hits send. Thirty seconds later there's a trill and Scott displays his phone screen happily. “See?”

Peter peers at the typeface.

**[Me]** : Can Mr. Argent and Peter look through your records?

**[Dr. D the E]** : Of course. Tell them they're organized by occurrence type, then country. Thank you again for looking after Dori. I've got souvenirs for you all.

“Ha!” Peter crows triumphantly. “I knew that! I figured that out!”

It had been clear once he had recognized the pattern. Far more practical to be able to easily access all the records for, say, legends of the eaters of human flesh, regardless of culture, than to pick through records country by country or decade by decade. Of course, _labels_ might have made the entire system more accessible. Deaton, he supposes, is his own explanation.

“Perhaps,” Argent says, his voice deadly calm, “you might ask Dr. Deaton to kindly answer _our_ calls.” Peter can _hear_ his teeth grinding as he pushes past Scott and out into the room, and just this once he can empathize with the sentiment. Deaton's mysterious, will-he-or-won't-he helpfulness had gotten old over a decade ago. Frankly, Peter thinks he just likes to fuck with them as payback for all the life or death situations the Hale pack had put him in. Peter is not sympathetic. The life of emissaries are notoriously short, and Alan has lived a long and relatively happy life.

Peter and Chris take up stations at opposite ends of the filing cabinets, flipping through time travel (disappointingly few files), nemeton related folders (Talia's destruction of Beacon Hills' is the most current entry), and weather related phenomenon ( _booooring_ ).

Scott does not leave, even with Argent's gentle hints which then turn to gentle prodding. Instead he leans against the door frame with his arms crossed. He eyes them suspiciously, like he thinks they might up and steal all of Deaton's things if he turns his back. Just to spite him, Peter pockets a handful of Roman coin he finds in a glass jar, three drawers into his search. Out of the corner of his eye he sees Argent slip some sort of tiny cube under the cuff of his shirt sleeve, and he presses his lips together in a reluctant smile.

He's halfway through the section on blood sacrifice when a farmer's journal from 19th century Vermont catches his eye. “Christopher,” he asks absently, as he pulls the journal pages completely out and follows the script with his finger. “how many blood types did you and our little Scott find?”

Scott's indignant yelp is gratifying, but Peter barely registers it as Chris joins him.

“A deer. Probably a fawn by the amount of blood. And at least three different human contributions.”

“Hmm. Well I don't know about the deer, but take a look at this.” He shifts the journal so that it's shared between himself and Argent. Chris lets the page rest in the palm of his hand, the smell of gun oil and Peter's saliva wafting up as he fidgets his fingers against the cover.

“Interesting,” he finally says, turning his head to share a look with Peter. “We have to find the bodies.”

* * * * * * * * * *

It's halfway through seventh period, and the halls are empty as Allison makes her way to the office. Her heels echo dully, reminding her of one too many nights she'd spent in these halls, caught between life and death and killing and saving. She speeds up, refusing to put her hand on her purse to feel the weight of the crossbow there. They're all as safe as they'll ever be right now, and just because she only now knows about the things that go bump in the night doesn't mean they weren't always there.

She rounds the corner to the office, steps inside, and stops. She huffs at Peter, Jr. sitting in a chair by the principal's door, before summarily dismissing him and sitting across the room. The silence is golden, but doesn't, of course, last.

“What'd you do? Break somebody's nail?”

She doesn't look up from her hands, from twisting her mother's ring around her pointer finger. “Some of us know how to stay out of trouble.” Another thirty seconds pass before she relents and looks up, if only to pass the time. Peter looks smug as usual, and she smooths her hands down her skirt to keep from punching him right in that smug face. “I'm meeting with Mr. Romero about a scholarship application.”

“Oh.” His eyebrows draw together. “I'm supposed to do that next week.” He presses his lips together in a downward smirk and picks at his jeans. “Next week twenty years ago, I guess.”

She stops herself from blurting out _You're going to college?_ because she doesn't care about anything Peter Hale ever had planned. They stare at each other in uneasy silence before Peter raises an eyebrow. 

“What? You don't want to know why I'm in here? Don't want to have more ammunition? Something to run back to your friends with? Prove what a bad seed I am?”

“No.” What she wants is to forget she'd ever seen the look in her father's eyes when he'd brushed off Peter's disappearance.

“Some dick called Chris a fag in gym, so he decked him.” Peter grins and shrugs. “Then the dick made the mistake of trying to get up. So I kicked him.” He nods toward the principal's door. “Chris is being interrogated as we speak.” For a flash of a second the mirth flees from his face. “This place isn't as good as we thought.”

_ It never is _ , she thinks, but doesn't say, because 1) she doesn't want to talk to Peter, and 2) she's still caught up on the idea of her father beating the crap out of people out of anger, still trying to reconcile the boy that always seems seconds from boiling over with the parent she knows. He hunts, he kills, but it's always precise, always controlled. For all that she's seen him decapitate and shoot and maim, she's never once thought of him as a violent man. Not like the boy he apparently once was. She wants to know what changed him. Was it simply age and time? She still needs to know why he didn't grow up to be like Gerard, or Kate, if only to know that she can be more than her family name as well.

Then just like that, the smirk is back on Peter's face. “Although I think Finstock was having a hard time not congratulating us when he escorted us here. And he made that kid do laps. A lot of laps. That is one funny little man.”

Allison folds her arms and eyes the clock and wills Mr. Romero to materialize.

“So what is it?” Peter jerks her out of her wishful thinking and she realizes she's fisted her hands in the material of her skirt. She unclenches them and folds her arms.

“Excuse me?”

“Well, I mean, usually you look at me like you want to kill me, but today there's just a little bit more luster to that murderous gleam. So what did I do?”

“You hurt my father,” she snaps back, before she can think better of it.

“Yeah,” Peter mutters, so low she can barely hear it. “That's what everyone says.” Then his head snaps up, his eyes wide and searching. He looks _excited_. The itch is back to shoot him in the face.

“Wait. Did Chris tell you that? Not, you know--” he waves vaguely at the office door, “--my Chris. But your dad. Did he tell you that?”

“Yes?” she draws out cautiously, unsure of where he's going and afraid she's somehow mis-stepped.

Peter's entire body is straining forward in his seat. “What else did he say?”

“Nothing,” she says. Not quickly, though, even if that's her first impulse. She says it steady and sure, just like her father taught her. There are tricks for everything, especially for werewolves as young as the ones they're usually surrounded by.

Peter doesn't even seem to be listening, though. He sits back in his chair, a look of supreme satisfaction on his face. “Whatever. It doesn't matter what else he said.”

“Nothing he said matters in the first place.”

Peter just shakes his head. “He told you I hurt him. That means he still remembers. It still  _ matters _ . He still cares about it. About  _ him _ . It  _ mattered _ .”

“You're wrong,” she says emphatically, and she doesn't even have to try for steady and sure.

Peter shakes his head again. “No.  _ You're  _ wrong.” The self satisfaction and amusement are gone, replaced by icy, and cold. For a moment all she can see is a dark and wrecked Hale house, and Peter standing over her aunt's body, blood dripping from his claws. She blinks to shake the image away, as Peter smiles cruelly and continues. “I'll always know Chris better than you do.  _ He  _ will always know Chris better than you do. You should remember that.”

She remembers the full moon tomorrow, a scant two seconds before Peter's eyes take on the tiniest tinge of yellow and his jaw bulges in a way that says there's more than just human teeth in there now. 

“He's _ours._ You're just someone who never should have existed.”

His voice is a low growl and even though he doesn't move she's plunging her hand into her purse and closing her fingers around the comforting weight of the crossbow. And that's when her wish is granted a minute too late and Mr. Romero pops his head out and invites her inside.

When she looks back before closing the door, Peter's face is human and sanguine again, and he's steadily picking at a loose thread on the knee of his jeans.

 


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I ended up having to split this chapter into two parts because it was getting hella long, so as a result this first piece is a bit shorter than usual.

Peter snaps the file folder shut and slaps it down on the table. “No one is _missing_.”

 

Chris looks up from his own stack and says mildly, “We have another box.”

 

“From cases six months ago. No one stores up human sacrifices, Argent.”

 

Chris doesn't disagree. Nor does he acknowledge that no one kidnaps intended blood rite sources from three towns over, and yet they're going through cases from the surrounding three counties, with files helpfully – and questionably – provided by Sheriff Stilinski.

 

He reaches over their haphazardly piled paper towers and retrieves the folder they'd pilfered from Alan's. “In 1871, a farmer in Vermont is hunting in the woods surrounding his property and comes across three bodies hanging suspended from a tree. Their throats cut open and blood drained, coincidentally landing on the roots of said tree. Five miles away, in the center of town, a woman appears, disoriented and unfamiliar. No one can place her, or the raid by an escaped prison gang she keeps referencing – a raid which, by the way, occurred fifteen years later.” He nods to the laptop still sitting open to their research on the kitchen island. “Two days later she disappears just as mysteriously as she appeared. On the day the town magistrate has the bodies burned in order to ward off evil spirits.

 

“It's the same thing, Peter. It has to be. We find the bodies and burn them, we shatter the spell. They go back to where they belong.”

 

“In the meantime, I really thing we should return to the option of having a _discussion_ with Ms. Blake. We would be rid of the brats a lot sooner if we simply knew _who_ had done this. And why. Because as intriguing as I am, I can't imagine someone expending this much energy for a bland trip down memory lane, just for little 'ole _me_. I know you know where she lives. Even Derek doesn't know that one. We could have her screaming in less than an hour.”

 

Chris does knows where she lives. Had known within the week of her reappearance in Derek's life. He's not so foolish as to not keep tabs on every threat to his home. “Or,” he says lightly, “we wait the couple of days it will take to finish doing research. We haven't even touched residents who've gone on vacation and aren't due back yet. That'll take leg work, but it's what I would do, if I wanted to avoid suspicion.”

 

Peter makes a face and huffs. “You were far more tolerable when you were feeling murderous. Pity your morality has decided to rear it's ugly head.” He begrudgingly reopens the file in front of him. “You realize we're going to be stuck watching them make cow eyes at each other over the full moon.”

 

There's a subtle tick in Peter's jaw that Chris does not miss, despite the humored disgust in his tone. It triggers his curiosity, as Peter too often does, makes him ask the question that has been bothering him for days. “Why are you so scared of them?”

 

Peter very slowly looks up from the paper in front of him, and Chris can already see the dismissal in his eyes. “The only thing I'm scared of is your growing allergy to buttons.” Chris looks at his shirt with a frown as Peter continues. “And need I remind you that it was _you_ who ran out the room.”

 

“I _walked_. Because I didn't know how to deal with them. I had no idea how to react. But you? You _hate_ them.”

 

“Please. I don't hate them. I despise them. Don't you?”

 

The thing is, he doesn't. It's painful, absolutely, in a way he doesn't have the luxury of dealing with, to see himself so young. To see Peter so young. When things were infinitely more simple and infinitely more complicated. Another set of what ifs to add to the mountain that already eats at the back of his brain if he gives himself time to think. He lives his life in blocked out boxes, compartmentalized emotions and reactions that allow him to protect the things and people he loves, and he doesn't appreciate having someone reach far into the back of that dusty closet and rip open boxes sealed shut decades ago.

 

But the only thing he says out loud is an even, “I don't hate them.”

 

Peter arches an eyebrow while shoving his stack to the side and pushing away from the table. “You should.”

 

“You don't make any sense.” Chris catches the edge of the final file box and drags it dutifully toward himself. “Out of the two of us, I'm the one who should resent them.”

 

Peter's eyes narrow to slits, and he studies Chris long enough for it to become uncomfortable. Chris ignores him, pulls the lid off and extracts a handful of papers. From the corner of his eye he sees Peter take a deep breath, open his mouth, and –

 

Whatever vitriol Peter had been about to launch is lost when Chris' cell phone rings. It's the school. For the fifth time in four days. Chris stands as he answers, already walking to the living room to grab his keys from the coffee table.

 

“Uh huh,” he replies to the clearly irritated voice on the other end. “Yes, of course...Uh huh...We understand. Yes...of course that level of violence can't be tolerated.” A sharp, short retort has him back peddling. “Absolutely. No level of violence can be tolerated. Although you have to admit they were provoked.” He rolls his eyes, giving Peter a loaded look that has him stacking files together and hastily shoving them back into boxes. “Yes...right...you can't make exceptions to rules...a precedent would be set. We'll be there to pick them up right away.” He hangs up and slips the phone into his back pocket before he answers Peter's silent question.

 

“The boys were in a fight. A fairly one sided fight it sounds like. They're suspended for the next two days.”

 

“Of course it was. _Christ_.” It's plain enough Peter is itching for an argument, and his expression turns to exasperation as he pulls on his shoes with short, jerking movements. “What was it about? Can they not stay out of trouble for _two seconds_?”

 

And Peter says _he's_ the one who doesn't remember what they were like when they were young. “Only if they want to. And they obviously don't.” Peter brushes off the knees of his slacks as he stands, frowning when he notices a pick that is dangerously close to causing a hole, and Chris finally passes over the information an irate administrator had relayed. “A kid called them a homophobic slur. Chris took exception to it. Peter concurred.” It occurs to him that it no longer seems strange to be talking about themselves in third person. He can easily imagine exactly how quickly the two of them had reacted, and the corner of his mouth twitches up in a grin.

 

They finish piling the files in a closet, and Peter slams the door a bit too enthusiastically before rounding on Chris.

 

“They skip class to make out and you have a conniption, but they try to kill someone and suddenly you're _amused_? Your priorities are questionable.”

 

Chris opens the door and steps into the hall, waiting until Peter follows to close and lock it. “One of them is understandable. And you know full well that if they'd actually wanted the kid dead, they could have done it. They were blowing off steam.”

 

Peter shakes his head, a sharp bite to his words. “Spoken like a true Argent.” He steps around Chris and walks to the elevator without looking back. “I'm driving.”

 

* * * * * * * * *

Chris' ears are numb from the endless bitching they've had to endure from the moment their older selves had walked through the office door. At least there's a bit of variation this time: instead of his adult self lecturing them like a dried up Catholic priest, it's adult Peter hissing at them with cold, cutting words, while adult Chris smirks smugly from his spot on the kitchen stool, steadily cleaning the abrasions on Chris' knuckles.

 

Chris is grateful for the change. It's hard to want to punch himself in the face all the time. Still, enough is enough and he's going to go into a coma if he has to listen to this anymore. Peter looks pained, from his spot next to Chris; something happened while Chris was with the principal, but Peter isn't talking, at least not in front of the adults. So when Chris' adult self goes to reach for the binding, and Peter's adult self looks like he's winding up for another spiel, Chris shakes his head.

 

“Don't bother bandaging it yet. We're gonna shower.” He cuts off the argument before the adults can even get their mouths open. “Not together. God, you two are so _lame_. How do you stand yourselves? There's like ten showers here!” Okay, three, but who's counting? He and Peter have never actually had that opportunity, outside of basketball locker room showers with the entire team there. One day, though -

 

“We get it, okay? We shouldn't have gotten in a fight.” Although he's not sure it can be called a fight if they were the only ones landing hits. “It was irresponsible. We're supposed to be keeping a low profile. Dad would kick my ass if he were here.” He watches close at that, but doesn't get so much as a twitch in response. Damn. He got _good_ when he grew up.

 

Then Peter hisses out at his younger self, “And what would Talia think? She taught you better than this! Always such a disappointment, weren't you?” He pauses before smoothly twisting the blade. “Well, she's nothing but ash now, so I guess we'll never know her reaction for sure.”

 

It's hypocritical enough that everyone in the room should know it, but everyone in the room can also hear Chris' Peter suck in a sharp, quick gasp of air. For a long minute no one says anything as the two Peter's stare at each other, one with a narrowed, gleefully sadistic gaze, and the other with eyes wide and rapidly blinking.

 

Then Peter slides off the stool and says quietly, “I'll use the guest bathroom.” He turns and walks away without meeting anyone's eyes, even Chris'.

 

Chris watches until he disappears through the door. He kicks his stool over as he stands, feeling some satisfaction in the loud clatter it makes as it falls to the slate flooring. “You don't get a pass on being an asshole until tomorrow night. _Dick!”_ He's not as angry as his words probably sound, because Peter has always had a talent for ripping people apart, so it only makes sense it would carry over into a nightmare like this. But it doesn't mean Chris hates it any less.

 

He walks across the room in the opposite direction Peter took, toward the bathroom located in the main floor master. As he steps inside, he hears Chris say something to Peter. It's too quiet for him to understand the words, but the tone is sharp and clipped.

 

* * * * * * * *

 

Thirty minutes later, Chris steps back into the living area, scrubbing his hair with a towel and leaving his dirty shirt balled up on the floor of the bathroom. He has pants on, and that should be good enough for anyone. His future self is nowhere to be seen, nor is his Peter, but Asshole #2 is sprawled on the couch, head leaned back, eyes closed, and hands laced over his stomach.

 

He doesn't bother opening his eyes when he hears Chris, just jams his thumb over his shoulder toward the door to Peter's room, then goes back to meditating, or plotting, or whatever the hell he does when he's not actively being a douche. For a moment, Chris is furious again. Furious at himself for growing into someone who pretends he doesn't see Peter. Pretends he doesn't know his best friend _needs_ him. He had made a promise, and he had broken it, and the only thing of value Chris has ever possessed is the faith Peter has in him.

 

He tamps it down and makes his way to Peter's room. No one barks at him to stop or stay out of the bedroom, so _something_ must have gone down while he was showering. But he's not going to ask what, and risk pushing the adults to make some kind of stand. He knocks lightly on the door.

 

“Peter?”

 

There's no answer, so he turns the knob and quietly pushes it open.

 

The lamps are off, but enough light is cast from the living room that he can see Peter curled up on the bed, his naked back to the door.

 

“Peter,” he says again.

 

There's a sniff, and then a muffled, choking sound, and then Peter whispers, “They're dead, Chris. Everyone is _dead._ ”

 

Peter is _crying_ , and that scares Chris more than anything. Peter never cries. Not ever. He lashes out, he gets cold, he turns nasty and mean, but _tears_ –

 

Chris pads across the floor on quiet, bare feet, and slips into the bed behind Peter. He curls his body around his, reaching across Peter's chest to gently pry his hands out of the fists into which they've clenched. Peter slumps back into him with a shuddering breath, squeezing their entwined fingers so tight, Chris feels bone grind.

 

“Not all of them, Petie. There's Cora. And Derek.”

 

“I don't know who the fuck Cora is. And Derek _hates_ me. I always knew they would hate me in the end. I'm not like them. I never was.”

 

Chris pushes his face into the space between Peter's shoulder and neck, rubbing his cheek against the tear damp skin. There's salt on his lips and he presses a chaste kiss to the spot beneath Peter's ear. This has nothing to do with sex, nothing to do with the part of him that wants Peter so badly it hurts. This is the part of them that always has been, long before Chris realized loving his best friend didn't preclude being _in_ love with him. The part of him that hurts when Peter hurts. That isn't okay until Peter is okay.

 

“Derek doesn't hate you,” he promises Peter. “He doesn't.”

 

“But he _wants_ to hate me. And that's even worse.”

 

He can't make this better. Can't fix it, at least not until they get back to their own time and he can grab Katie and take her as far away from Gerard as possible. Keep her from becoming one of the monsters they're supposed to be protecting humanity from. Until then, he can only lock Peter tighter against him, support his body as it shakes with the whimpers Peter tries stubbornly to keep from slipping out of clenched teeth. He manages for a whole minute, maybe two, and then it all escapes him in a ragged, echoing sob.

 

“Talia's never gonna make us blueberry pancakes again. Or tell me to stop using all the hot water. Or forget to rewind the video before taking it back to the store. Nathan's never gonna yell at me for leaving the milk out. Or help me with Calculus. Lau--” Peter's voice catches like broken glass-- “Laura's never gonna cut holes in the couch again because I wasn't watching her with the scissors.”

 

Chris strokes his thumb up and down Peter's sternum, presses closed mouth kisses to the ball of his shoulder. He repeats the motions over and over, until there's something - an out of place sound, or maybe just a phantom feel between his shoulder blades - that has Chris twisting to look behind them.

 

Peter is standing in the doorway. His face is expressionless, but his nostrils flare with every heaving breath, and his knuckles are white where they're griping the door. Over Peter's shoulder, he can just make out the older Chris, watching over the scene with a deep “v”between his eyes. But he's not really looking at _them_. Not really. He's focused almost entirely on Peter's future self.

 

Chris turns his back on them.

 

He doesn't care about the two of them anymore. Doesn't care about their stupid games and whatever lies they tell themselves so they can pretend they still don't need each other like air. They don't matter, not now. They made this mess; they can clean it up.

 

He returns to rubbing his cheek against Peter's neck and listens as, in between quiet, broken sobs, Peter continues to gasp out a litany of all the things he'll never see his family do again.

 

* * * * * * * * *

 

Peter wakes up with his eyes crusted shut from tears. Jesus. He had _cried_. He's humiliated - not that Chris had witnessed it, but that _they_ had. They don't have the right, and now he's shown them he's _vulnerable_.

 

He shifts restlessly, only for Chris' arms to tighten around him. Hazy, sleep ridden words are mumbled into his hair.

 

“No school. Go back to sleep.”

 

Sleep is impossible, but so is resisting the anchoring warmth of Chris' body, so instead, Peter wriggles and squirms until he's turned in Chris' arms and facing him. He's already back asleep, and soft, gusting breaths of air warm Peter's jaw.

 

Over Christopher's shoulder he sees the other Peter, sitting across the threshold of the room. His head has lolled back against the frame in sleep, and at some point someone had thrown a blanket over him. Since he and Christopher are accounted for, there's really only one other candidate.

 

Said candidate is asleep on the floor by the couch, knees tucked close to his chest and arms folded over them. It's so like Chris, to position himself where he can keep guard over everyone. Time won't change that, it seems.

 

A switch flips.

 

Peter's skin begins to crawl, and his jaw aches as fangs keep trying to break through, only to be constantly rebuffed by the noose the were keeps around the wolf. He can hear his blood rushing through his veins, the drip of a faucet one floor down, and the persistent chirping of a bird outside the window. All at once it's too much: too loud, too fast, too soon, and the wolf snaps and claws at the gate.

 

Peter stills, focusing all his senses on the steady beat of Christopher's heart, and feels the violence behind his eyes fade away beneath its cadence. It sits low and hot, simmering as it waits for another chance, for another moment where Peter might give it rein to fulfill the deadly potential of his duel ancestry.

 

The full moon has arrived in all its glory, and Peter digs in and prepares to ride it out.

 


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is a scene dealing with internalized homophobia in this chapter.

Peter wakes up with a crick in his neck, an angry irritation crawling under his skin, and two pairs of eyes staring at him. He raises one brow at them before climbing quite regally to his feet, if he does say so himself. The out of place blanket falls to the floor and is ignored, in exactly the manner it should be.

At least Argent is still been asleep, which gives Peter the pleasure of nudging his knee hard enough with his toe that it dislodges his elbow, causing him to jerk awake with a shout and a hand reaching for a gun that isn't there. Despite his protestations at the beginning, Argent has yet to arm himself while in the apartment. At least beyond the pieces he always wears. Peter suspects he even wears them in sleep, which must have made his marriage bed with his wife interesting, to say the least.

Chris shoots him a dirty look, which Peter loosely shrugs off. “It's your turn to fix the brats breakfast. I'm going to shower.”

He stands under the too hot spray for a long time, pretending not to know the lump in his throat has nothing to do with the position he'd slept in. Well, it's the full moon. Things are bound to be a bit strange anyway.

When he comes back downstairs, Chris is at the sink, up to his elbows in soapy dishwater, even though Peter has a perfectly good dishwasher. Because of course he is. Stupid. When he catches sight of Peter, he nods toward the table, where he's left a plate of something for him, covered with another plate to keep it warm.

The children are nowhere in sight, but Peter smells the faint aroma of cigarette smoke and hears the even fainter murmur of voices, so he knows they've sequestered themselves on the balcony to indulge Chris' unhealthy habit.

The “something” turns out to be pancakes and eggs, with bacon and hash browns stacked neatly on the side, and before Peter can get back up, Chris is already there, holding out the bottle of ketchup. Peter sniffs, but takes it, dumping an over generous amount over the hash browns.

Chris returns to the sink, but instead of picking up the sponge, he leans back against it and studies Peter, a muscle in his jaw ticking in a way that just screams he's working up to saying something.

Peter preempts the entire conversation by holding up one cautioning finger as he stares Chris down, and then shaking his head. 

“No.” The last thing he needs is to endure a lecture from Chris fucking Argent. Or even worse, some facade of _compassion_.

Chris makes a face but turns back to his dishes. Which lasts a blissful two minutes, wherein Peter shoves forkfuls of hash browns in his mouth – the man may be a stick in the ass killjoy, but there's no arguing he can cook – before Chris turns back around and walks resolutely to the table. He sits down across from Peter, who puts his fork down in resignation.

Chris' opening volley is a dull and predictable “You have to stop doing this.”

It's the lecture option, then.

“Repetitive, Argent.” The full moon boils low in his belly and he quashes the urge to snap his teeth and growl. Instead he smiles breezily and picks up his fork for another bite, but Argent does the unexpected and covers his hand with his, pinning it carefully to the table.

“You have. To stop. Doing this.” His eyes are intent on Peter, each word deliberate and precise as a well aimed bullet.

“And what exactly are you referencing?” He asks blithely, retrieving his hand from Chris' grip and resuming his meal. His pancakes are getting cold, and he frowns sulkily.

“Don't,” Argent warns. Which really, he should know better. Peter on a good day doesn't take orders well. On a day like today? Well –

But Chris just plows on, like he's unaware he's crossing the bounds of polite conversation with a psychopathic werewolf who could rip his spleen out without looking. “You need to stop fucking with them. Stop fucking with _him_. It's not helping anything, ripping --”

Peter has had enough. He shoves the plate away from himself as he hisses low and angry. “What I choose to do with him is _none_ of your business. I will rip him to _shreds_ if I take a mind to, leave him howling in despair at what his delusional little life becomes, and you...will do... _nothing_. You want to coddle someone, you coddle yours. Do you understand me, Argent? This is the part where you nod and _walk away_.”

Argent blinks and then slowly shakes his head. “You think this is about _him_? _Him_? With the ready made anchor to keep dragging him back?”

Now it's Peter turn to blink, as Chris closes his eyes and shakes his head again. “Christ. You do. I can't even-- You are so bound and determined...” Chris shoves his chair back and runs a hand through his hair, focus traded for agitation, and yes, good, they're finally getting somewhere. Or at least he is for about 2.5 seconds, which is when a carefully smooth wall of blankness slides down over Chris' face. And, oh, that will _just not do_.

He gives Chris the moment it takes to pace back to the sink before he picks up the thread he'd unraveled and sets to picking at it.

“What made you take up cooking?” he asks, not because he actually _cares_ , but because he'd rather irritate Chris than be irritated _by_ him. “From what I hear, the missus didn't let murdering teenagers keep her from being quite the Suzy Homemaker.”

Chris sighs, giving no sign that Peter's dig has ruffled him beyond the same exasperation he would show a child.“I don't know why you act like you didn't know her.”

Peter just looks at him with raised eyebrows, making it clear he's still waiting for an answer. Chris' eyebrows knit together as he thinks, and then he answers slow, like he's feeling his words out for truth. “I like-- I like making things. The process of turning twelve different parts into a whole.” Then he smirks, just barely, but it's there. “I can knit, too, you know.”

 

“Well, then,” Peter says, more snidely than even he would have managed if it weren't for the particular day, “you picked the wrong line of work. How many lives do you think you've destroyed? Do you even keep count? How do you keep from choking on that hypocrisy long enough to lecture _me_?”

 

Chris doesn't answer him. Doesn't even _flinch_ at Peter's harsh words. But Peter hears his heart accelerate for two...three...four beats before settling to its normal, steady rhythm. And Peter is struck again with the desire to reach inside him – figuratively or literally, he's not exactly sure – and twist and rend until he tears Argent raw and open, bloody and exposed for Peter to see.

Chris smiles again, tiny and tight around the edges, but not nearly bloody enough for Peter. “You can swallow anything if you practice long enough. You should know that, Hale.” He pauses just long enough for Peter to realize Argent has made a sex joke before continuing, his voice calm and clear and assured, like he's reciting a religious litany. Learned in the Church of Gerard, no doubt. “Some of us fight, so that others can live. And there are casualties in every war.”

Peter licks the syrup from his knife and asks casually, “Is that what you told yourself when you plunged that butcher knife into Victoria?”

And _oh_ that one has hit home. Peter waits gleefully as Chris' face goes cold and one hand clenches white around the edge of the cabinet.

“Don't _ever_ \--” The words are hissed out between Chris' teeth, lips rolled back in a snarl that would sit well on any werewolf's face, and Peter raises one eyebrow in anticipation of whatever threat is sure to follow. It's an itch he can't quite scratch on his own today, and if he's going to be stuck in this fucking apartment--

A laugh sounds from beyond the balcony doors, full and happy and carefree, and Peter had forgotten he could ever sound like that. Argent slowly uncurls his hand, one finger at a time. A long breath whooshes out of him, a sudden deflation of tension. He tosses the dishtowel to Peter, who catches it reflexively, before he actually thinks about it.

“I think you can handle clean up.”

He disappears into his room without further explanation, but a minute or so later Peter hears the subtle, rhythmic thump of Chris' body hitting the floor and the quiet sound of him counting under his breath. 

Push ups or sit ups, Peter supposes. An attempt to purge the desire for violence by another outlet. Peter liked him better when he would just punch someone in the face and call it good. But the itch has receded for now, so Peter turns on the faucet and leaves him to his oblations.

* * * * * * * * 

There are a million and one things Chris could be doing. _Should_ be doing. He runs a successful international company, after all. One he has sorely neglected over the last week. There are calls to make, emails to return, buyers to placate, and at least two vital meetings to reschedule. He has very real and serious obligations to his employees and stockholders.

Instead, he doesn't come out of his room until his shirt is sticking to his chest and his face is dripping sweat and he can no longer feel the phantom grip of the knife in his hand and the way it had scrapped against Victoria's sternum before piercing through her heart. His body aches, but his mind is quiet.

Peter is descending the stairs when Chris reenters the room, and he rolls his eyes and looks pointedly at the sweat staining the front of Chris' shirt in a deep V, then flares his nostrils in a dramatic inhale.

“And here I thought I'd taught you the importance of showers when we were younger.”

They've slipped so easily into mentioning the past, he thinks, after almost two years of never breathing a word between them of it, that it should be shocking, or at least surprising, the casualness it now carries. But he's spent long enough not thinking about issues that could muddy the waters, so he boxes that up for another day, for a time when he no longer is looking in a mirror from twenty five years in his past.

The boys are sitting on the area rug by the couch, a deck of playing cards split between them. They don't look up at the closing of his door, because they have seemingly decided he and Peter don't exist anymore. Neither of them had spoken more than a word or two to him over breakfast, intent, instead, on each other. 

Whether that's because of the full moon and the tenuous hold Peter had on his control in those days (possible and likely) or because his younger self has decided to give them both the finger because of Peter's vicious display last night ( _also_ possible and likely) he doesn't know and he isn't sure he particularly cares. The two of them do a good enough job of taking care of each other, which frees him to concentrate on the real wild card in the room.

Peter is twitchy. Erratic. And it isn't the full moon. Or at least not just the full moon. He's seen Peter in the last year over full moons. The sharp, sarcastic edge of his tongue is still there, just as when they were children, but these days it's administered with a cool, controlled hand, delivered with a careful air of amused disinterest. Deliberate cruelty, or at least cruelty unlaced with humor, seems to have been left behind in Peter's younger years. Chris had occasionally mused that Peter had perhaps decided that the effort involved looked far too much like he actually _cared_ about his target, rather than them having wondered coincidentally into his cross hairs.

But today... _Today_ \--

Those ten minutes over breakfast had been like reliving a full moon twenty five years ago, with Peter wildly swinging from a nonchalant carelessness to a vicious cruelty so fast it gave Chris whiplash. 

They're both coming unraveled under the stress; Chris would be a fool to deny it. But Peter, like always, will wait for the inevitable explosion before he admits it. And a Peter like that? Unpredictable and un-anchored, and already riding the edge of the madness he thinks he hides so well these days? Chris has no fucking clue what he might do next.

Mainly, though, he paces, while Chris sits at the table and pretends to read a book on the development of the modern stock exchange. Back and forth, from one end of the spacious loft to the other. Up the stairs and down, never looking at much of anyone or anything. Peter stops for a while in the kitchen, rearranges two cabinets. It takes long enough that by the time he moves on, the boys have moved from the floor to the couch. Chris is idly flipping through channels on the too large, overly ostentatious flat screen while Peter sprawls across the couch, head in Chris' lap and eyes half closed as Chris scratches his nails through his hair. 

(Chris sits straight up at one point, eyes wide as he stares at the screen. “Peter. There are more Star Wars movies!” He doesn't tell them not to bother; instead he gets up and silently makes them popcorn. Everyone should experience the horror of Episode One first hand.)

By the time he's delivered the popcorn – his younger self grunts, which Chris takes as a thank you – Peter has migrated to the library nook, sitting in a rich, dark leather, wing back chair. He has one leg crossed over the other, ankle loosely resting on his knee, and a book in his lap, but Chris doesn't think Peter is reading any more than he was. 

It all seems normal, quiet, benign. To a stranger looking in, they'd probably look like some modern family, gathered around hearth and home for a day. But Chris can feel the tension gathering. Drawing. Building, building, building. Can hear it when the teenaged Peter snaps something raw and angry at Chris, followed almost immediately by a low apology and Chris bending down to whisper something in his ear that makes him smirk and laugh. Can see his Peter – now Peter – rest his hand on his knee in a parody of relaxation, but with fingers that are a steady _tap, tap_ on Peter's knee, claws so barely there and out that Chris only sees them because it's a nervous twitch from years ago. A nervous twitch that hadn't made a reappearance until he and Peter had walked into Derek's following a vague text from Stiles. There's an explosion waiting underneath Peter's skin, roiling and bubbling and the air is so heavy Chris' teeth grind beneath its suffocating weight. It's not a matter of _if_ the explosion is coming, it's only a matter of when. And of who will get caught by the shrapnel in its wake.

If they were different people...a different time, a different place... He knows exactly what he could do; how he could mitigate the full moon, and the fury and the pain. Defuse the bomb. Or at least stop Peter from picking a hole in the knee of every pair of his goddamn pants. It's a lot like-- Well, it's almost exactly what the Juniors are doing now, sitting on opposite ends of the couch as they play a vicious game of Mario Kart, but with both of their legs tucked to the side so that Peter's feet are buried under Chris' knees. 

But this isn't a different time and a different place. They're adults now, and the world has ended and been remade and ended again, and all they have left is this. So all he can do is watch, and wait, and hope he can get to his gun before someone dies.

The whole day passes like that. Peter, coiled and ready to strike, Chris, slowly wearing down from the strain of the balancing act, and the boys drifting from on occupation to another, always touching but rarely speaking more than a word or two whenever Chris and Peter are in the room. 

When the light starts to fade from the sky outside the balcony doors, Peter just...disappears. Climbs the stairs to the loft and doesn't come out again for hours. Long enough that Chris begins to think he's given a fuck you to the entire day altogether and has gone to bed. 

The boys are out on the balcony, and Chris is just finishing a phone conversation with Allison – Scott and Isaac's voices filtering through in the background – when Peter reappears, sauntering down the staircase as if he hasn't a care in the world. He comes to a stop at the end of the table, his lip curling up in disgust as he gives Chris a once over. “You're going to have to take a shower. Change into something less embarrassing.”

Chris raises one eyebrow. “Excuse me?”

Chris didn't think it was possible, but Peter's lip curls even more. “I can't stand the stench of this house anymore. We're going out.”

Chris snorts and picks his book back up. “No we're not. We're not taking them out in public today. Something we decided in case you've somehow forgotten.”

“I've changed my mind. They'll be fine.” He looks pointedly toward the balcony, where the boys are sitting on the wooden deck, soles of their feet pressed against the others. “He has his training wheels attached. He'll be _fine_.”

“Likely,” Chris concedes. “But he's not the one I'm concerned about.” He looks pointedly at Peter.

“Please, Christopher,” Peter dismisses his objection with flick of his hand, as if it's both insulting and ridiculous. “I haven't had control issues in years.”

Chris continues to stare steadily at him, both eyebrows raising at the absurdity of the statement, and Peter rolls his eyes.

“Goodness, Argent, that little episode doesn't even count. Extenuating circumstances.”

“Funny, I could give you a whole list of people who disagree.”

“Well,” Peter shoots back lightly, “most of them are dead, so their vote doesn't count.”

“We're not going anywhere,” Chris looks back down at his book, effectively signaling he's given the final word. In retrospect he really should have known better. _No one_ gets the final word with Peter.

Peter lifts one shoulder carelessly. “You're choice, I suppose. Feel free to stay in. I'll just take mine and go.”

Chris slowly puts his book down and sighs, revealing more aggravation than he intends. “You can't take him without Chris. Not now. Not with the moon. Not with everything that's happening. You _know that_. It would be a disaster.”

“You have a point, I suppose. But nothing to worry about. We'll take young Christopher with us then.”

Chris opens his mouth to protest, only to realize seconds too late that he's played right into Peter's hands.

“I know, I know, Argent. You won't let the boy go with me without you; I just might give into the temptation to gut him and save us all some trouble. But my younger self can't go without _him_. And I certainly won't trust Peter with you, on tonight of all nights.” Peter braces his hands on the table and leans down, face mere inches from Chris'. “And _I_ am not staying in this house on second more.” There's something more preternatural than human in the blue of his eyes and his voice lowers to a vicious growl before smoothing back out. He straightens and grins, a cat with a canary, as he continues.

“Therefore, all of us are walking out of here together. That overburdened sense of duty won't let you do otherwise. Check and Mate, Argent. Now run along and get dressed while I give the young couple the happy news.”

Chris is left trying to force his brain to catch up – like always, like always – as Peter strolls to the balcony and opens the sliding glass door.

“Children, I have exciting news.” He claps his hands together. “Argent and I are going to give you a wonderful gift. We're going to take you out. You can even pretend it's a date if you like. Delusions do seem to be your fortes.”

While Chris' younger self enters the room with a look of intense concentration, studying Peter like he's trying to figure out the catch, Peter saunters in behind him, a sly smile on his face. He stops in front of his older self and looks him up and down.

“So if it's a date for us, what exactly does it mean it is for the two of _you_?”

Peter's lips turn up, but there's no humor in it, and the parody of a pat he gives to his younger self's cheek echoes loud in the loft and leaves behind an imprint of his fingers. “Cute,” he purrs, before stepping back, with one last slap to Peter's cheek. “It's a pity Talia didn't muzzle you sooner. Think of all the trouble we might have been spared. Now get dressed before I change my mind.”

Peter turns his back to the pair, completely ignoring the way Chris' younger half starts after him, fists clenched and teeth bared. Peter grabs his wrist and pulls him back before he gets more than two steps, staring at his older self with _fangs_ bared, and such an intense look of hatred that Chris realizes if he's not careful, the two of _them_ might just rip each other apart before the end of the night.

Getting out of such a confined space probably isn't such a bad idea after all.

* * * * * * 

Despite Peter's insistence that he can't stay in the loft _one minute more_ , Chris has showered and changed - into jeans and a v-neck. While he's brought a few more things over from the apartment, it's nothing more than his standard daily wear, and even if he had, it will be a cold day in hell before he lets Peter Hale dictate his wardrobe - and Peter still has yet to reappear. 

The boys hadn't bothered to change at all; from what he could see they had spent most of their time with Chris' thumb soothing the red on Peter's cheek and Chris whispering to him in tones too quiet to interpret. Chris had left Peter alone exactly once, to walk into his bedroom for all of three minutes; when he had come out, it had been with dark lined eyes, and the two of them had exchanged a kind of look that just screamed they were up to something that was bound to give Chris a headache.

They haven't even left yet, and Chris is already exhausted just thinking about the fact he's stuck babysitting _three_ children tonight. It would be so much easier just to let Peter step over the line again and then put him down. It's what his father would do – except, of course, his father would have killed Peter the second they'd realized he was resurrected, if only he'd have been mobile enough to leave his room – but Chris has worked too hard and sacrificed too much to keep this town off the radar. Any more mishaps would break the shaky truce he's made with the other hunting clans.

He's seriously considering calling Melissa or the Sheriff and begging for reinforcements when Peter apparently decides he's primped enough and returns to the room. Chris looks at him once and then very carefully directs his gaze at just over his shoulder. It's an old, familiar pull he feels, low in the pit of his stomach and shivering up the back of his neck, and it's not the first time it's made its reappearance since he saw Peter alive and well again, standing resurrected in a warehouse and helping Derek kill a teenage boy. But this time it's a bit harder to dismiss it as just a knee jerk reaction to someone who had once been his entire world.

Peter looks good, in jeans that hug his ass just this side of obscene and a dark green Henley, but then Peter has always looked good, always known exactly how to frame his assets to the best advantage. Chris realizes for the first time that perhaps this has been Peter's goal all along; perhaps he's hoping to find something – _someone_ – while they're out. Take the violent edge of the moon and work it out in a way that's slightly less bloody. Fuck or fight – it's a time old fall back for shifters who have the control to not accidentally turn that fuck into murder. And Chris is absolutely sure Peter does not have that control tonight.

Peter looks them over with a dissatisfied sneer – a sneer that grows deeper when his eyes sweep up and down Chris – then crooks his finger toward the door in a clear expectation they'll all fall in line.

“Come along now. And remember the rules: No killing or maiming. If Argent gets any more constipated we'll have to go to a doctor.”

The younger Peter snarls out a protest. “I'm not going to -” but Peter cuts him off with a lazy hand wave.

“Oh, I was talking to young Christopher here. We all know how...irrational he gets about you when night spots are involved. I'd hate to have to hide a body just because someone accidentally touches you.”

Chris' younger self starts, eyes going wide as Peter's jab finds its target. Chris winces in sympathy at the slow flush that creeps up his face and neck, until he's bright red. It had been a major victory for Chris when he had finally trained himself to control that involuntary reaction to embarrassment, but for now, that's a place far in the future for the child he once was.

Chris crosses the distance to Peter in three easy steps. “ _Enough_. If you want to pick a fight, I'm right here. Otherwise, _shut up_. Or I swear to god I'll pump you so full of tranquilizers you won't wake up until the _next_ full moon. Do you understand me?”

Peter looks pointedly between Chris' face and the clenched fist at his side, then raises one eyebrow. “And there you are.”

Without waiting for Chris to respond, he steps around him, snags his jacket from the coat rack with one finger, and opens the door. He looks over his shoulder as he walks out of the loft. “Don't drag your feet. The night's not getting any younger.”

 

* * * * * * * * 

They end up at _The Sevens_ , a place far more bar than grill, but with ostensibly enough of a dining area that the boys can get in the door and get a menu. Chris leaves them at a booth, choosing to sit at a corner of the bar that affords him a view of them, as well as of the pool tables, to where Peter had wordlessly headed as soon as they arrived. He orders a drink and ignores the wink the bartender gives him as she delivers it. Christ, she has to be half his age.

While Chris has spent a good many hours in places just like this, for hunting and for leisure, he and Peter had only been together in a place even close to this once before, and since Peter hadn't known Chris was there at the time, he's pretty sure it doesn't count.

* * * * * * * *

_1986_

Chris tumbles out of the front door of the school, backpack slung haphazardly over one shoulder as he greets the thin, weak sunshine of the winter afternoon. He's still riding high from their win at State last weekend, and he's grinning madly by the time he makes his way to Peter, slumped nonchalantly against the corner brick.

Peter's been moody all week, ever since Ben's victory party. Which makes no sense since the full moon passed the night before the last game and Chris knows for a fact Peter hooked up with one of Stephanie's flag line friends at the party. But sometimes Peter just gets like that, and since it always passes sooner rather than later, Chris has learned to ignore it.

He throws an arm around Peter's shoulders, tugging him along down the sidewalk. “Hey, guess what?”

Peter squints at him, one corner of his mouth twitching up. “Stephanie finally wised up and dumped your ass?”

“Ha ha, as if. _Anyway_ , Stilinski says the nickelcade finally got the laser tag room open. Let's go tonight; check it out.”

Peter shakes his head. “Sorry, can't.”

Chris stops in the center of the sidewalk, the space between his eyebrows pulling into a deep V. “What?” They've been talking about this for _months_.

Peter shrugs and ducks out from underneath Chris' arm. “Can't.” Chris doesn't miss the fact he's actually looking at Chris' forehead and not his eyes. “I've gotta take care of something at home.” He starts walking backwards, away from Chris and toward the edge of the woods, even though they're not remotely close to the place where the paths to the Hale and Argent houses diverge.

“What is it? I'll come help, and then we can still go.”

Peter shakes his head, picking up speed as he nears the treeline. “It's just something Talia needs. And you know she doesn't like you at the house. We'll go tomorrow, okay? Meet at the dock at three?” Chris thinks Peter intends his grin to be reassuring, but it just looks _off_. Before he can say anything, can even answer, Peter turns and takes off into the woods at a run, in the general direction of the Hale house, a _see_ you tomorrow floating out behind him.

Chris stares after him, his mind whirling as it tries to catch up. Because Peter is _lying_. They lie to a whole lot of people, about a whole lot of things, but they don't lie to _each other_ (the werewolf and the hunter thing notwithstanding; that was an entirely different situation.) So something must be wrong.

Must be wrong with the Hale family. That's the only thing Chris can think of. Because Peter had mentioned Talia. Maybe it has to do with hunters. Maybe hunters are coming for Peter's family. Maybe it's his _dad_. Except it can't be his dad because they have a code, and Talia hasn't done anything wrong. 

But hunters. It could be another family. Peter probably wouldn't tell him because he's trying to keep him out of it. So he doesn't have to answer to his dad. Which is just fucking stupid because Peter would rip his head off if Chris kept _him_ in the dark if he was in trouble. If he tried to protect him like that. 

Peter _knows_ Chris always has his back. Chris has _promised_ Peter. And he doesn't break those promises. And he'll be damned if he lets something happen to his best friend or his family.

Which is why four hours later finds him at the Hale house, standing just within the cover of the trees that surround the home. Everything is quiet; as far as he can tell, Talia isn't even home. But he can see occasional glimpses of Peter through his bedroom window as he moves about the room. He's changed into a new shirt, and then once he comes past shirtless, and then he goes through three more shirts before he seems to settle on a blue one he had bought the last time he had coerced Chris into taking the trip into the city with him to shop at the mall. When he had tried it on, Chris had snickered and then fluttered his eyes and simpered, telling him the girls would _looooove_ it because it brought out his _eyyyyyyyyes_. Peter had frogged him hard enough in the arm that it hurt for days, then sniffed and said everyone knew his eyes were _gorgeous_ , with or without being brought out. But he'd bought the shirt.

Enough time has passed that Chris is getting bored with his stakeout and pissed with missing out on laser tag and considering just marching up to the door and demanding Peter tell him exactly what is going on, when Peter walks out, swinging a set of keys in his hand. He stops and takes a cursory look around before ambling down the porch steps.

The wind is blowing from the west, carrying Chris' scent away from Peter, but even if it wasn't, he doubts it would make much difference. Peter had once told him that, after three years of almost constant contact, their scents were so intermingled that other packs probably couldn't tell them apart. (Chris would never tell Peter, but he likes that. Likes the idea that he smells like he belongs to something other than his father's home. It won't be until much later that Chris realizes how useful that camouflage would have been for hunting.)

The convenient fallout of that fact is that unless he stands behind Peter and deliberately flails about, Peter's not going to notice anything strange about his scent being present, so Chris just steps a little further back into the shadows of the trees and keeps his eyes on Peter. He's whistling, a small smirk on his face as he practically _skips_ to the family vehicle. It will never fail to amuse Chris that Talia Hale, werewolf and badass Alpha extraordinaire, owns a 1980 VW Van. Peter says it was their parents and that Talia keeps it because it's paid for and is one of the few vehicles the whole pack can fit in at once. It's practical. But _still_.

Peter certainly doesn't _act_ like anything is wrong as he climbs into the driver's seat, but misdirection is a particular talent of Peter's so that doesn't necessarily mean anything. Peter cranks up the engine and drives away. Chris would have lost him right there if not for the fact that the road leading from the Hale house to the main road is dirt, and twists and winds through five miles of forest, forcing cars to go at a snail's pace and giving the pack ample time to prepare from the first moment they hear the roar of an engine turn down the long drive. But the path through the woods to that same turn off is only a mile cut through, so Chris takes off at a jog and breaks through the treeline at the same time he hears the rumble of the VW engine approach the stop sign. He waits until Peter makes the turn, before sprinting across the street to the gas station where he'd left the Buick; Peter really must be focused on something if he doesn't even see the car sitting there.

He slouches behind the wheel and waits another minute before he pulls onto the road – there's no turn offs for another five miles and it's better to put a few cars between he and Peter if he doesn't want to be seen. Chris is good at vehicular tailing. It's one of the only times he can remember his father not lecturing him after a training session. Instead there had been a hand clapped on his shoulder and a stern “Good job.” It embarrasses him sometimes, when he remembers how proud he had felt at those two words, how much he replays them in his head. How much he still crawls and clambers for that ephemeral approval. God, he hates his father. Except he really, really doesn't.

Chris shakes his head to clear the unnecessary static and backs out into the road. He catches sight of the van two miles later and three cars in front of him, and follows Peter as he drives into, and then through Beacon Hills. When they pass over the tracks, Chris has to fall further behind, because there are fewer cars that come to the sketchy side of town, and that makes things tricky since there are far more places he could lose Peter amidst the trailer parks and broken storefronts.

Luck is with him for once. The VW has a broken taillight and when dusk falls he's able to keep that marker in sight when Peter makes a turn that takes them right to the border of Beacon Hills, where the crossroad butts up to the corner borders of three neighboring towns, to a building that would look abandoned if it weren't for the forty or so cars in the parking lot and the pulsing bass that bursts out of the door every time the bouncer opens it. Chris cuts the lights on the Buick as soon as he's sure of Peter's destination, and pulls in blind into the furthest corner of the lot.

Chris studies the bar, eyebrows furrowed in a deep V when he notices the pink triangle painted unobtrusively above a blacked out window and realizes where they must be. There's a reason this place is located in no man's land. It has a _reputation_. Is both a joke and an insult thrown between teenagers at the high school, and flung by overly testosteroned coaches at athletes that aren't performing well that day. His father has made comments about setting it on fire and every year there's always an editorial or two, wondering if the town councils should shut the place down. For the good of the children, of course.

He can't think of one single reason for Peter to be here, and yet Peter's getting out of the van, locking the door, and walking up to the door. Jesus, they're not even _old enough_ to get into bars, period, much less places like this. But Peter has never had a problem conning his way into anything, and sure enough, he chats with the bouncer for all of ten seconds before he's opening the door and letting Peter sweep inside.

Chris on the other hand... The bouncer shakes his head before Chris gets within twenty feet, which means Chris is forced to go back to the car, wait another ten minutes, and then sneak around the side of the building. He ends up shimmying his way through a high window that's barely wide enough for his shoulders to fit through and dropping inside what turns out to be a bathroom. The door bursts open just seconds after his feet touch cracked linoleum, and Chris hurriedly turns toward a urinal, making a show of opening his zipper and pissing, all while keeping his eyes firmly on the wall. Eventually there's a flush, and the door opens again; Chris tucks himself back in and slips out as the door closes on his heels.

The music is deafening, and it takes a minute for his eyes to adjust to the dimness of the lights, made all the worse by the thick cigarette smoke that wafts through the room. But when he finally orients himself, he knows with absolute confidence that his father will _kill_ him if he ever finds out Chris was here.

The rumors are true, he thinks. He can't find a single woman in the room. It's all men. Talking together. Drinking together. _Dancing_ together with hands on arms and backs and asses, or tucked underneath the hems of shirts. It's not...it's not exactly what he expected, not from what his father has said or what he's seen on TV. None of them look particularly ashamed, or guilty, or furtive. Most of them...most of them look relaxed. Happy. _Joyful_. He's so far out of his element that he has to fight the urge to run, but he needs to find Peter, find out why in the world he came here in the first place.

 

He pushes on, averting his eyes when one man pulls another close and kisses him, unsure what he's supposed to think, how he's supposed to react, and he lets out a relieved breath when he finally catches sight of Peter, sitting at the bar with a beer already in front of him. Chris is about to go to him, drag him to a corner away from the smoke and confusion and demand an explanation, when a man with shaggy, curly blond hair sits on the stool next to Peter. He's old. Maybe not teacher old, but at least in his _twenties_ , and the way he looks at Peter makes the hair on the back of Chris' neck stand up.

 

Peter tilts his head and gives him a once over, then returns to his beer with his lips twisted back into that same small smirk he'd had earlier. This time, though, something about it makes Chris' stomach drop and flip and he takes another step toward the bar.

 

Blondie, for his part, looks at Peter for a second longer. Then he turns to the bartender and holds up two fingers. The bartender nods, then pours two shots for Blondie, who takes them both and slides one over in front of Peter. Peter tilts his head again, one corner of his mouth curled up, and Chris can read Blondie’s lips as he says “ _Drink_ ,” and nudges the shot a little closer.

 

Chris almost laughs out loud. Good luck with that. Peter doesn't like most people on a good day, and certainly not some stranger who keeps touching his shoulder like he _knows_ him and leaning in way too close. Chris stops beside a high top table and waits for Peter to cut Blondie off at the ankles with the sharp side of his tongue. He doesn't need any help with _that_.

 

But Peter _doesn't_. Instead he smiles Blondie, somehow slow and secretive, before licking his bottom lip and throwing back the drink. It strikes Chris that he doesn't break eye contact with him the entire time. Then there's another shot, and another, and Chris _still_ doesn't understand what he's seeing - or maybe he just doesn't want to - not until Blondie leans in until his lips are touching Peter's ear, says something that makes Peter laugh and nod, and they both slide off their stools and weave their way through the crowd.

 

Chris follows them, brushing off hands that reach and coax and shaking his head at a murmured suggestion so far beyond anything he's ever heard that he can feel his face heat. He ducks his head as a riff of laughter and a _Nathan, be nice. You're gonna scar the kid_ drifts after him. When he finally catches up with Peter, he's leaning on a wall toward the end of a side hall with Blondie, either oblivious or not caring about the stream of passersby going to and from the bathroom.

 

Chris thinks at first that Peter's seen him, has to have seen him, but Peter seems to have eyes only for the man in front of him, who has him pinned in against the wall in a way that Peter would have to actually fight to escape. Then Chris thinks he looks scared, and he takes a halting step forward to intervene, but all at once Peter's expression takes on a familiar, stubborn, challenging look. He shifts so that his stance falls wider, then hooks his fingers into the belt loops of Blondie’s jeans. All of the air rushes out of Chris' lungs as Blondie fists his hands in Peter's shirt, pushes him back against the wall, and then kisses him hard and opened mouth. Chris sees a flash of his tongue as it passes between Peter's lips.

 

For a few precious seconds in time, Chris' mind goes completely blank. Seconds during which Blondie’s fingers dig through Peter's hair and tug it harshly at the roots. Seconds during which Peter's smile turns foreign and borderline wild and he bites at Blondie’s lip and lets him push him smotheringly harder into the wall, like Blondie’s going to fuck him right there, right in front of everyone.

 

Chris' thought process trips and stutters, then roars back to life. Comes back on line with a curl of his upper lip and a rage that races straight and undiluted through his veins. Not for the reasons it should, for the reasons of which he knows Gerard would approve. Not because Peter has lied to him, and has apparently been lying to him for _years_ , and not out of disgust for the filth taking place in front of and around him. But his fury is so strong his nails cut crescents into his palms from how tightly his fists are clenched, because _how dare he_? How dare this random piece of trash who doesn't know a thing about Peter, and who couldn't care less about Peter _put his hands on him_?

 

Chris wants to rip him off, wants to break every finger in the hands that are cupping Peter's jaw and turning it this way and that. Wants to cut off the tongue that is pushing its way into Peter's mouth with no care or consideration. No one should ever, _ever_ treat Peter like he's disposable, like he's interchangeable. _Chris_ would never treat him like that. Chris would be careful with Peter, the way Peter deserves. The way _Peter_ needs, even if he would never admit it out loud. Would cover him more as he pressed him into the wall, so that prying eyes couldn't see. Would coax his mouth open until _Peter_ was pulling him in, rather than acting like Peter was some kind of mindless doll he'd bought for his use. Until Peter was desperate and clumsy and couldn't keep up that stupid mask he wears for the rest of the world.

 

He knows Peter would taste like the menthol in the chapstick he always uses, and the alcohol he's been drinking, and probably just a hint of Aquafresh from the tube. There would be chapped lips, too, because he bites them too much when he's thinking – and Peter is always thinking – so those would need to be soothed first, before Chris could tug Peter's shirt up and over his head. Before he could trail his fingers up the ever ticklish ridges of Peter's ribs and make him laugh and squirm, then squirm for other reasons as Chris settles his palm low on the hard planes of his stomach.

 

Someone jostles Chris from behind, spilling a drink on his back with a murmured _sorry_ and jerking him back to reality. He blinks and swallows and realizes one of Peter's shoulders is bare, collar stretched halfway down his arm as Blondie mouths at the exposed skin. Peter's eyes are closed, one hand flat against the wall and the other moving restlessly through the curls of Blondie’s hair.

 

Panic hits Chris suddenly, low and hard, as he realizes what he's doing. What he's _thinking_. And still he can't clear the image from his head. Can't shake the desire to sooth his thumbs over Peter's wrists and tug the plumpness of his bottom lip between his teeth. It's overwhelming and all consuming and totally, completely, 100% foreign from anything he has ever known. 

 

He likes girls, he likes girls, he likes _girls_. Not his best friend. He gets turned on by hips that round under his palms and the fullness of breasts and by the way Stephanie's nipples darken from coral to rose when they slick up and bud in his mouth. Not by the knobby curve of Peter's spine when he thrashes and curls into Chris during full moon night terrors. Not by the angular cut of Peter's jaw, recently roughened by the brand new appearance of stubble. Not by the brilliant blue of Peter's eyes as they widen and then crinkle at the edges when he groans and laughs at Chris' terrible jokes. 

 

Notnotnotnot _not_.

 

Chris shifts uncomfortably, biting his lip to stifle a groan as his dick, half hard, twitches from the friction of his jeans. One of his palms is bleeding where his nails have cut through skin, and then Peter laughs and drags the Blondie’s face up from his neck, from where he's trying to force Peter to bare his throat to his _teeth_.

 

Chris trembles and does the only thing he knows to do.

 

He runs.

* * * * * * * * * * * * 

 

Peter racks the balls, the din and buzz of The Sevens swirling around him in a pleasant, numbing blur of white noise. It muffles the thoughts in his head, lets him drown out the smell of his own body and the sound of the too fast beating of his pulse as it thumps and races in its dance with the full moon. 

 

The evening has gone well. There is already a stack of bills adorning the edge of the pool table, spoils from those idiots stupid enough to open their wallets against the chance of beating him, and another naïve soul stands at the ready to have his pockets emptied as well. He gives a quick scan of the room as he chalks his cue, unable and unwilling to quiet the survival instinct that kept him alive even as the flesh melted from his bones, even as his lifeblood escaped from the gaping wound in his neck. Especially on tonight of all nights. 

 

The room is just as disappointingly boring as it was the last time: men and women in various stages of convincing themselves they want to talk to each other, or fuck each other, or pretend they actually like each other, the alcohol soothing the guilt of morals or that tan line left from a hastily removed wedding band. The brats are still entrenched at their cozy little booth, heads bent sickeningly low over a plate of chicken wings and probably whispering about futile plans to ensure their wondrous, storybook love lasts for the ages. 

 

Argent is at the end of the bar, still nursing the same drink he started the night with, and fending off the conversational advances of a large chested woman whose tacky, fire engine hair color _obviously_ came out of a bottle. She laughs and trails blood red nails down his forearm, while Chris responds with a forced, polite smile, his eyes constantly tracking from one side of the bar to the other.

 

Peter sniffs judgmentally. If Argent wanted to be left alone, he should have considered wearing something other than a v-neck that plunged practically to his navel. An exaggeration maybe, but just barely. The man has to know he's practically issuing gold plated invitations to every prowling woman in the place. It's like throwing a piece of steak to a pack of starving lions.

 

He rolls his eyes and returns his attention to the game, only to find his would be opponent – Tim...Tom...Terrance...Peter really can't be bothered to remember – studying him like he's searching for a missing puzzle piece.

 

“Is there a problem?”

 

Tomething shakes his head. “Nah. Just...you look kind of familiar. We met before?”

 

Peter snorts. As if. “I doubt it.” He pulls the rack off and shifts the cue ball from one place to the other, eyeing where he wants his first shot to go.

 

“Are you sure?” Timance blathers on. “I swear I've seen you before.”

 

“Perhaps I just have one of those faces. Let's get on with the game, shall we?” He spins the cue ball gently before picking it up and positioning it in the right side corner.

 

“Wait! You're Peter Hale, aren't you? I remember you from the news stories. The fire. Right?”

 

Wonderful. He gives a curt “yes,” hoping Terrim will get the hint, and glides his fingertips across the smooth, curved surface of the ball.

 

“That must have sucked, dude. Stuck in that coma? And then finding out it was some crazy bitch behind it. Women, huh? Fucking nuts.”

 

Peter slowly straightens, the noise of the room suddenly deafening in his ears. He swears there's the scent of ashes in the air. “We should play. There are people waiting for the table.” The man has to have some shred of self preservation.

 

“Yeah, yeah, sure.” He gestures for Peter to go ahead and then _keeps_ talking. “My dad was one of the firefighters, you know. He said he'd never seen anything that bad. Just the _smell_.”

 

But Peter isn't listening anymore. He's imagining what it would look like if he smashed the cue ball through the side of Tomothy's skull. There would be an initial spattering of blood, of course, right when the ball first crushed through bone. A spray of hair and brain matter and gelatinous material as his eyeball popped out of his socket. He probably wouldn't even realize he was dead at first, looking shocked, then startled as nerve endings fired and his body twitched in reflexive protest of its end. Maybe his fingers would twitch. Try to reach out to salvage the eye. Then the cue ball would crash down again, this time plowing straight through exposed brain matter, ending those last pistoning neurons and leaving him a leaking, messy heap on the barroom floor. 

 

He certainly wouldn't be talking anymore.

 

\--there's static all around Peter that pulses in time to the rush of blood through his veins and his fingers tighten around the perfect weight of the cue ball

 

the muscles in his arm contract as his hand begins to lift from the table

 

tangofironacrosshistonguebrightflashesofsharplight--

 

And then there's warmth pressed against his back and the overwhelming smell of Chris. A firm pressure settles over his hand and Chris' voice tickles his ear, sounding both unbearably close and miles and miles away; even and calm and absolutely unbending.

 

“Peter, no.” 

 

The red haze dissipates from Peter's eyes and he finds himself focused on the smudges of purple that ring Chris' wrist, faint mementos of the pressure of Peter's grip. The fingers attached to it are pinning Peter's hand down, wrapped around both it and the cue ball and trapping them to the table. The blood thirst roiling under Peter's skin cools to a simmer, then a tremor, then disappears all together.

 

Peter carefully loosens his grip. “Relax, Christopher. I wasn't _actually_ going to do anything to him.”

 

“Liar,” Chris says lightly, in a voice that threatens to drag Peter to another time and another place.

 

Peter sniffs again. “I was getting bored anyway. The conversation here is just dreadful.”

 

“Good, because we're going home.”

 

Home. What a stupid, ephemeral, _meaningless_ word. The Hales have no homes. Haven't for years.

 

A throat clears, and Peter realizes Chris has yet to move, even though the _supposed_ danger has clearly passed. Tomething is looking between the two of them curiously, probably wondering why Chris is wrapped around him like some kind of blanketing shield.

 

“Hey!” Tomething says abruptly. “Aren't you that crazy chick's bro-”

 

Argent still doesn't let go, just cuts him off by reaching around Peter with his free hand and tossing him the stack of bills from the table. “We're done here. Find a new game.”

 

“That was _mine_ ,” Peter hisses under his breath, as Tomething looks confused for a minute before shrugging and walking away.

 

Argent's fingers tighten briefly around his before he draws in a deep breath and finally lets go. The chill of the air conditioning immediately sweeps into the vacuum, making Peter shiver. 

 

“I think you can survive the hit, Hale.” Argent's voice is cool and impersonal again. “Let's collect the juniors and -” He stops abruptly. “ _Goddammit_.”

 

Peter follows the line of Argent's sight. Sees an abandoned basket of chicken wings at an empty booth.

 

Argent curses again. “I'm going to _kill_ them.”


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Everyone gets high. That's it. That's the chapter.

Peter lolls against the wall of the alleyway, Chris' hand braced beside his head as he stares up at him with lazy, half lidded eyes. Chris touches the tip of his tongue to his top lip before bringing the joint back to his mouth and inhaling deeply. He catches Peter's jaw with his thumb and gently tugs it down, then leans in, fitting their mouths together. Smoke passes from his lungs to Peter's, and he lets his lips travel away, across Peter's jaw and down his throat. He pause at the hollow there – a sucking kiss, a stinging bite, a soothing lave of his tongue – as Peter sucks in a breath. His chest quivers, breathing momentarily stopped, and it's only when he finally exhales a pungent cloud of smoke that Chris straightens.

He strokes a thumb down Peter's cheekbone. “Better?”

Peter nods, loose and relaxed, and eyes just the slightest unfocused. “Mmhmm,” he hums out.

“Knew it would.” He'd had a plan – a _good_ plan – before the asshole coalition had screwed everything up by deciding to keep them locked up all day. But better late than never, and feeling Peter finally relax from the threadbare tension he's been riding all day makes it totally worth the lecture he's sure they'll get when they're eventually found.

He hooks one finger in Peter’s collar. “Come’re.” Peter sways in obediently, and Chris takes another drag. This time when he exhales into Peter’s mouth, he stays, tonguing slow and languid as he explores inside, across well known contours and familiar curves. Smoke drifts around and between them, escaping as they move restlessly against each other, Peter catching Chris’ lower lip between his teeth and groaning when Chris slips his free hand underneath his shirt.

The alley is dark and deserted and the dumpster shields them from the street. Chris finally has to pull back to gasp in some air, and Peter makes a mournful noise, mindlessly chasing his mouth for half a second before slumping back again against the wall. Chris drags in a shuddering breath through his nose, watching Peter watch him, mouth parted and pink and wet. He liberates the joint from Chris and takes a drag himself.

“Come back,” he cajoles. “Wanna feel you more.” He tips his head back as he exhales, undulating almost imperceptibly against the wall, and the tips of Chris’ fingers curl down to hook inside the waistband of his jeans.

“S’nobody out here.” He looks left and right before dipping his head and nuzzling Peter’s jaw and working his hand further down his pants. “Bet I could suck you off right here before anybody found us. That’s be good, yeah?”

Peter’s nod is enthusiastic, if a bit wobbly. Under the blunted edge of his high, there’s a kind of thrill to the idea. To bringing Peter off in such a public place, where anyone could stumble across them at anytime. Peter’s eyes would probably shift, and the pot would make him clumsy and sloppy and loud in his attempts to cradle Chris’ head and twist his fingers in his hair; just as clumsy and sloppy and loud as Chris would be gagging around his dick. Chris honestly can’t think of anything better right now, can’t think why it isn’t completely logical to get on his knees, right here, right now. A post orgasm Peter is calm and cuddly and sleepy, and between that and the pot, they could tell the full moon to fuck right the fuck off.

He plucks the joint from where Peter has tucked it between his lips and takes a final, too deep drag, one that threatens to make him choke and cough before he gets it under control. He plasters himself against Peter, coordination a joke as he attempts to simultaneously kiss him while undoing his pants one handed and rolling the tip of the joint between two fingers to dislodge the cherry.

“Yeah, yeah, come on, come on,” Peter is panting out broken nonsense that nonetheless manages to sound like dirty porn in Chris’ ears, and he’s only just managed to finally get Peter’s pants open and the joint out and is digging in his pocket for the baggie when —

“Jesus _Christ_ , you have _got_ to be kidding me. What the _hell_ are you doing?”

And Chris really, really, _really_ hates his older self right now. He turns his head to the side and glares fuzzily at the rapidly approaching blobs that finally manage to resolve themselves into Asshole 1  & 2\. Peter is either ignoring them all together, or hadn’t heard them at all, because he just keeps rubbing his cheek into the curve of Chris’ neck, pressing his scent into his skin.

He’s pretty sure his older self looks incredibly pissed, but he’s really too high to care, and he mutters out petulantly, “I hate you so much.”

The hand not shoved down Peter’s pants is still clutching both joint and baggie, and Future-asshole-ruinallthegoodtimes-Chris wraps his fingers around his wrist and jerks it up in front of their faces, where the weak light filtering in from the street lamp glints dully off the three joints still safely encased in their plastic palace. He dimly notes Chris’ other hand is stretched out behind him, resting loosely across the back of Peter’s older self’s neck, and he tucks that away to examine at another, less drugged moment. It’s the first time he’s ever seen his future self willingly touch Peter, and while it would be more convenient to his coming lecture if both hands were free, he doesn’t seem to be inclined to let go.

“What the _hell_ ,” he hisses out through gritted teeth, “are you thinking? You went out and bought pot? Do you have any idea what could have happened if the two of you got caught? Were dragged down to the police station and booked?” He shakes Chris hard enough that his teeth rattle and Peter finally lifts his head from his neck and glares. “What do you think your fingerprints would show? You _idiots_!”

Chris is feeling just a bit indignant. “I didn’t buy anything!” He smirks, self satisfied. “I just got Stiles to tell me who dealt and I broke into his locker. Like I would waste money.” Not that either of them actually _had_ money.

“Really. You robbed someone. Wonderful.” Behind him, future Peter snorts, although there’s more of a strain to it than normal.

“I don’t know why you’re surprised, Christopher. We should just be grateful he’s limiting himself to illegal narcotics.”

Asshole 1 shoots him an ugly look before rounding back around on them. “Give me the baggie.” Chris would like to protest harder, but really, he’s pretty high, and it seems like it would take way too much effort and he’d rather use that arm to hook around Peter’s waist, anyway. So he does his best to halfway sneer and thrusts the bag into Asshole 1’s palm.

“Happy?”

“Ecstatic.” He shoves a finger in Peter’s face. “Do up your pants for God’s sake. You’re in _public_.”

Peter flips him off lazily, but obeys. Then he curls back up against Chris and rests heavily in his arms. Chris figures they have about three minutes until he decides to just go to sleep there. But it looks like they won’t get that three minutes.

“I hope everyone enjoyed their night out, because it’s the last one you’re getting.”

“Dramatic much?” Chris mumbles, and Peter’s body shakes as he giggles.

Future Peter is strangely quiet through the whole exchange, and the shadows hide his face too well for Chris to see much of his expression. Something must have happened after they slipped out, but nobody seems bloody so it can’t have been that serious.

Asshole 1 shoves Chris’ hard stolen weed into his pocket and points firmly to the mouth of the alley. “Walk. _Quietly_.”

Chris salutes and slips his arm around Peter’s waist. The two of them stumble down the alley, snickering every time one of them trips or stumbles. Behind him he can hear their future halves following, and when he looks over his shoulder, he sees that Chris has yet to release his careful grip on Peter’s neck.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Chris leans against the balcony rails, watching the few cars still out at this hour pass by on the street far below. The boys have been put to bed. The same bed, for once. Chris knows himself well enough to know he would never cross that line when there was any chance Peter couldn't give full consent, and they're easier to manage for now if they're together.

He hears hollow footsteps against floorboards and then the shift from wood to concrete as Peter steps out onto the balcony. He hasn't said much since they dragged the boys out from behind the bar, and Peter without his characteristic snark is making Chris uncomfortable. Makes him think whatever has been boiling under the surface all day is still there.

Peter comes up beside him, still smelling of beer and smoke and pool chalk. The tips of the fingers of his right hand are blue.

“They're asleep,” is his opening, as he crosses his arms on the railing. “You snore.”

So does Peter, but Chris can be the better person. “You left their door open?”

“Yes. We're intending to let this arrangement continue?” 

It takes Chris a minute to realize he'd referred to young Peter's room as 'theirs'. He sighs and runs a hand over his face. “Deaton will be back soon.”

“So everyone keeps saying. And yet...he's not here now, is he?”

“They'll be at school tomorrow. We can go back to following up leads.”

Peter presses his lips together. “Yippee.”

One corner of Chris' lips curls up at that, but he doesn't respond.

“What are you intending to do with those?” Peter nods toward the baggie of joints hanging loosely from Chris' hand.

“Flush them, I suppose. Wouldn't exactly be responsible to give them back to their owner, would it? Although I suppose I could turn them over to the sheriff. But I think he has enough real world crime to worry about these days.”

Peter presses his lips together thoughtfully. “Seems like a waste, don't you think?”

“You're joking, right?”

“What? You planning on drug testing yourself for your own company?”

“I'm an adult. And it's an illegal, unhealthy -”

“Says the man who pretends he isn't sneaking out here at night to smoke cigarettes again. Fell back into that habit pretty quickly, didn't you? Are you feeling particularly stressed these days, Argent?”

“I'm not getting _high_ with you, Hale! We're not seventeen anymore!”

“You're telling me. There's no way I could fit my ass into those jeans he's wearing these days.”

Chris shifts so he can see Peter better, because while his voice is light, there's something tight around his eyes. He's staring fixedly at the moon, the whiteness where his knuckles are gripping the railing apparent even to Chris' human eyes. Peter _is_ still fighting for control , and it occurs to Chris that he's perhaps thinking what worked for his younger self might work for him. But Peter is Peter and hell would freeze over before he would ever admit something like that outright.

The simple solution would be to turn the baggie over to Peter and let him have at it, but this day – this _week_ – has been anything but simple. And there's a new suspicion swimming around in the back of Chris' head, and he's too afraid he'll find out it's true if he tests it tonight of all nights.

He holds out a hand, palm up. “Give it to me.”

Peter raises on eyebrow.

“The lighter. You came out for this, so you came out prepared.”

Peter's lips twitch. “Give me some credit. Nobody wants to taste butane.” He pulls a pack of matches out of his back pocket and flicks them at Chris, forcing him to lunge out and catch them before they plummet off the balcony.

“Asshole,” he mutters under his breath, knowing well enough that Peter will hear it anyway. The rolling paper scrapes along his lip as he clenches his mouth around it, swiping his tongue over the tip just to irritate Peter. The scrape of the match as he strikes it is disproportionately loud in the sudden quiet, and he lets it burn down almost to his fingertips before he finally lifts it and lights the joint.

The first inhale is a scorch down his throat. A ton of bricks in his lungs. Every instinct screams at him to exhale, to cough, to clear his lungs as quickly as possible. But he forces himself still. Leans on his arms against the railing and holds his breath for a long, long moment before he slowly exhales, using his tongue to form rings through the smoke as it drifts out.

He turns to Peter and offers the joint, one eyebrow raised challengingly.

“Show off,” Peter accuses. Chris just shrugs one shoulder as Peter takes the joint from him, already feeling the slow, sweet creep of blunted edges stretching tendrils through his brain. Peter chokes on his inhale, banging a palm on the railing as he’s hit by a coughing fit, and Chris’ lips twitch with a smirk while he waits for him to get his breathing back under control. Peter glares, but doesn’t respond, just takes another toke before wordlessly passing the joint back to Chris.

They continue like that for another few minutes, a quiet back and forth exchange with Chris watching the far away headlights and Peter keeps his eyes on the sky. Chris blinks slow, lazy and languid, thoughts wending and winding but not staying too long in any one place, and beside him, Peter’s breath comes more and more slow. A hundred nights. A thousand nights. Countless nights sit buried and restless underneath this one. A pattern. A habit. Moves as easy and thought free as brushing teeth or driving a car or putting on pants one leg at a time.

When the first joint is burnt to nothing but a roach, Chris lights a second one, then frowns as he looks around Peter’s balcony. “Why don’t you have any chairs?”

Peter wobbles as he turns around to confirm Chris’ observation. He waves his hand airily and Chris gets mesmerized by the motion, eyes almost crossing as he follows it. It takes a second for what Peter says to sink in. “It would ruin the aesthetic.”

Chris jabs his finger at Peter, joint pinched between his lips. “You are such a pretentious asshole.” He inhales through his mouth and exhales through his nose, then takes two more drags just to spite Peter.

“You’re fucking up the rotaaation,” Peter sing songs, before plucking the joint handily from Chris mouth.

Chris huffs and laughs, then plops gracelessly to the ground, legs stretched out in front of him. The night is still warm and a gentle breeze drifts around him and ruffles his hair. He braces himself on his arms and tips his head back, closing his eyes and shivering through the sensation. After a long moment he hears Peter rustling behind him, then a warm weight pressing against his back as Peter, too, sits, the two of them propping each other up.

A hundred nights. A thousand nights. Countless nights buried beneath this one.

They smoke in an almost companionable silence, joint passed over shoulders without comment. And then, out of nowhere, Peter shatters the quiet.

“You think I didn't come back for you.”

Chris reaches out and cloaks himself in the numb carelessness of the pot floating through his system. 

“You didn't come back for me, Peter,” he says lightly, passing the joint over his shoulder and waiting for the slight tug that lets him know Peter has a hold of it before letting go.

“No. I did. I did. ...I was _late_. But I did.”

Peter isn't lying. But there's something... He isn't telling the complete truth, either. Chris stays silent and after another moment and another rotation, Peter picks up again.

“I was _late_. Two weeks, Christopher. Barely two weeks overdue. And you were _gone_. How could you give up so easily? Did it ever occur to you that something might have delayed me? That I was running _late_?”

Words that he thinks should be sharp are just lolled out, as he snuffs out the butt of the joint and lazily lights another. “Of course it did. I delayed Gerard as long as I could. But there was an _alpha pack_. Did you really think Gerard wouldn't find out why Talia pulled up stakes and ran? Did you really think we wouldn't try to track them down? We're hunters, idiot. We _hunted_. I could barely convince Gerard to give me the week to finish midterms.”

Peter's snort seems to have more steam than Chris can muster at the moment, although he completely ignores the fact Chris knows Peter had lied about why his family had moved away. “And you couldn't leave word? A letter? A note? A smoke signal? It would have been more convincing if you’d even _tried_.”

“Of course I did.”

“Bullshit.” The word _sounds_ angry, but Peter almost laughs it out, like it's just too much effort to actually _get_ angry. “I checked everywhere. The dock, the woods, our _houses_. You left nothing, Argent. Don't pretend you did.”

Chris snorts. “Then don't pretend you came back, Hale. I made sure you could have found me. If you'd actually wanted to. I told _Deaton_. For a _year_ I told him every place Gerard took us.”

But as soon as the words leave his mouth, everything falls together and he _knows_. Knows Peter knows it too, if the almost imperceptible intake of breath he hears is any sign. The air becomes too still. Becomes oppressive. And Chris is on the verge of getting up and leaving when Peter finally speaks.

“Ah, well,” Peter says lightly, “Suppose that answers the question of whether or not he knew the whole extent, doesn't it? Obviously decided the pack was more important than any little promise to Gerard Argent's son. Always was a loyal lapdog to Talia, that one.

Chris can feel the shrug of Peter’s shoulders against his back, and as sobriety threatens to creep back in, he inhales deeply, hard enough that the cherry flares bright and the paper crackles and burns under the force of the suction. It doesn’t quite manage to drown Peter’s voice out.

“It was probably for the best. I mean, I grew up to be a murderer, and you grew up to have a stick in your ass. We should send Deaton a thank you card.”

Chris doesn’t comment, just pulls his legs to his chest and wraps his arms around his knees and stares mutely at the ridiculous collection of potted plants that line the far end of the balcony. They’re disappointingly banal: sage, rosemary, basil, lemon grass. Not a single poisonous variety among them.

Peter nudges back against him. “Oh come now, Christopher. I know you’re dying to make some comment about exactly which of us preferred things in our asses.”

“I don’t think,” Chris snaps back, “that you know a single thing about what I prefer, Petie.”

It’s a boulder dropped into a placid lake, the name, and Chris feels Peter’s shoulders tighten against his. There’s nothing for another moment and then Peter says quietly, “Oh, I think you’d be surprised at what I know.”

The joint is passed back over his shoulder, and neither of them speak much after that.

* * * * * * * * * * * * 

Peter stays on the balcony a very long time. Long after Chris yawns and scrubs his eyes and goes to bed. Long after both pot and full moon finally lose their grip. Long enough that he can just see the the sky lighten from pitch black to coal gray.

He’s staring pensively over the railing when the glass door slides open and quiet, bare footsteps make their way onto the balcony. He turns to find his younger self regarding him steadily, hair mussed and looking terribly young and frail in an over sized t-shirt. His arms are crossed and his hands are tucked inside his sleeves as a ward against the early morning chill.

He shifts uncertainly on the balls of his feet and chews on his bottom lip before asking plaintively, “Do we ever love anyone else?”

Peter pushes wearily off the railing, the whole day finally crashing down on him in a way that leaves him exhausted and barely able to keep his eyes open. 

“No,” he says quietly, brushing past the boy on his way into the apartment, and carefully closing the sliding door behind him.


	15. Chapter 15

It’s noon by the time Peter stumbles downstairs, his eyes still gritty from sleep and his bones aching. The taste in his mouth is so foul that even brushing three times can’t make it go away. He doesn’t bother getting dressed, ratty t-shirt and pajama pants close enough to presentable for him to find orange juice or a bagel or anything else to quiet the insistent rumbling of his stomach.

Chris is sitting at the kitchen table, a pair of reading glasses perched on the end of his nose as he frowns at his laptop. He’s barefoot, and wearing sweatpants, and looks just as worn as Peter feels. He looks up as Peter hits the bottom step, stubble covering his jaw, and hair in wild disarray.

“You look like shit,” Peter says flatly.

His commentary gets barely a notice; Chris just grunts noncommittally before going back to glaring at the screen, henpecking heavily at the keyboard. Peter waits for half a second before continuing on his way to the coffee pot. It’s on, and hot, and he spoons a heavy dose of sugar into the bottom of a mug, then fills it to the brim, a long, appreciative sigh leaving his mouth as the first, heavenly mouthful, scalds down his throat. He pads over to the table, trying to get a glimpse of what has Chris so distracted that he doesn’t even seem to fully realize Peter is actually in the room, but the damned man has one of those stupid films over the screen that obscures it unless one sits directly in front of it.

While he’s trying to figure out if it’s worth the effort of getting into Chris’ space, he realizes the loft is too quiet.

“Where are the boys?”

Chris is chewing on one thumbnail now. His eyes narrow at something he reads and he answers Peter absently. “School.” He catches a yawn in his palm and scrubs a hand through his hair. Peter takes a look at the mug at Chris’ elbow, and at the level of the coffee pot.

“How long have you been awake?” He edges closer to Chris’ shoulder.

Chris shrugs. “Since the juniors had to be awake for school. I just went ahead and took them. I thought you could use the sleep.”

Something tickles across Peter’s hand. He’s too wrung out to even be startled, but he does look down in order to identify what impetuous and soon to be dead insect has invaded his home - he supposes with all the traffic to and from the balcony he shouldn’t be surprised. Then he _does_ start, because what he sees is Chris’ fingertips brushing across his knuckles.

It’s barely a touch, and then Chris is back to banging on the keyboard, his scowl deepening at whatever he sees, an angry curse hissing from his lips. And with how little attention he’s paid to Peter since he’d come downstairs, Peter honestly isn’t sure he knows he’s touched him at all. Peter opens his mouth to call him on it, but the words somehow get clogged in his throat. And that’s uncomfortable and awkward enough that he retreats out of arms length instead, leaning back against the breakfast bar, coffee cup safely in hand.

When Chris mumbles a low “goddammit,” and slumps in his seat, Peter raises an eyebrow.

“Is something wrong?”

Chris sighs and twists to face Peter. He blinks, then looks him up and down, then blinks again. “You’re wearing pajamas.”

Peter rolls his eyes. “Yes. Exactly as I was when I first came downstairs.” When Chris still looks confused, Peter gives up and waves him on. “You were saying?”

Chris gives himself a shake and seems to refocus. “We have a problem.”

“You don’t say.” Peter manages, just barely, to keep the sarcasm from his voice. Maybe.

“No, another one. I got a message from the MacArthur family this morning. A ghoul pack they’ve been tracking crossed over into Beacon County last night.”

“So?”

Chris pinches his nose between his forefinger. “Oh. I forgot. You wouldn’t know. Only Derek and Scott were there.”

Peter rummages in a drawer until he finds a long lost bottle of Advil he can’t even remember why he has and tosses it to Chris. “Know what?” It irritates him he’s been left out of the know when his nephew and Tweedledum were obviously included. As if _they_ would actually be of any help.

“Part of the agreement I brokered to keep any more hunters from showing up. They’ll stay out, but I had to promise to take care of any of their problems that wander in.”

Peter takes careful stock of Chris, from the dark circles under his eyes to the unkempt state of his hair, to the slight tremor in his hand as he reaches for his own cup of coffee (the 5th if Peter has judged right). He looks in no state to be conducting a hunt, and if Peter wanted to be honest, _he’s_ not exactly feeling entirely chipper himself.

“They’re ghouls. They eat the dead. Why do we even _care_ , Christopher? Just let them go their merry way! We have enough on our plate without worrying about a few grave robbers.”

Chris shakes his head, pushing his chair back noisily from the table and draining his cup as he stands. “Correction. They _used_ to only eat the dead.” He walks past Peter to the coffee pot, absently clapping a hand on his shoulder as he goes. Peter blinks and has already taken half a step after him before he realizes what he’s doing. What. The. _Hell_. Late night highs and full moon oddities aside, Argent is not his _friend_. And his body has no right acting as if it’s made a different decision without his brain’s consent. Suddenly, the idea of killing something is entirely appealing again.

“What do you mean _used_ to? That’s what ghouls _do_ , Christopher. What their entire life cycle is based off of.”

“I know. But a few years back a couple of hunters took out a brother sister pair that had decided to up their dietary choices. Started eating people alive.”

Peter swore under his breath. Chris started another pot of coffee and dug around in the fridge before emerging with a package of bacon and a carton of eggs.

“Unfortunately those hunters have a bit of a reputation in the supernatural community. Bit of a reputation in the hunter community, too, to be honest. They’re assholes. None of us like to work with them. They don’t distinguish at all.”

Peter tapped his fingers on the marble thoughtfully. “Please tell me you’re not talking about the Win-”

Chris cut him off with a nod as he grabbed a pan and lit the burner. “Yeah. And you know how small and tight knit the ghoul community is. If it had been me who picked them off, or hell, even Gerard, there wouldn’t have been a peep. They’d probably have thanked us for getting rid of the problem. But because it was them—”

“They’ve turned it into a war. With humans as collateral.”

“Exactly. Graveyards are passe. Suburban Mom with Three Kids is the new entree.”

Not such a great loss, in Peter’s opinion, but then again, he really doesn’t need outside hunters poking their noses into his business. “Well, we’ll have to find someone to watch the children. Can’t have them running about out there, falling ass over elbows.”

Chris’ eyebrows rose to his forehead as he laid bacon in the pan and handily avoided the grease as it spit and sizzled. “You’re planning on helping?”

Peter sniffed and looked down at his coffee cup as he said with careful casualness, “Of course. You have absolutely no sense of self preservation, and if you get yourself killed, none of these other idiots are competent enough to help me fix this mess. Maybe Stiles,” he mused, “but there’s a good chance he would annoy me into killing him first.”

Chris scooted the bacon over and cracked two eggs into the pan beside them, a small half smile crinkling his cheek. “I’m glad I’ve managed to rate a bit higher than Stiles.”

“Just barely, Christopher. Do keep that in mind.” Peter eased onto a stool and slid a paper wrapped loaf of sourdough toward Chris. Chris started to unwrap it before getting caught by a yawn; the spatula stayed firmly clutched in his hand as he stretched, and Peter looked studiously away as his shirt hem rose, exposing a small strip of skin, and the thin line of hair that disappeared into the waistband of his sweats.

“Don’t worry, Petie, I always do.” He pointed toward the dish hutch with the handle of the spatula. “Grab us a couple of plates and I’ll tell you where I think the ghouls are squatting.”

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Chris is sitting behind Allison again. Word of the fight has gotten around, and the reaction has been a mix of half of the student body giving them a wide berth, and the other half giving them high fives. Par for the course, really. This is ground he’s readily familiar with.

He eyes the clock as the teacher drones on. Fifteen more minutes until he can go find Peter. He had been awake and showering by the the time Chris’ older self had woken him up, and even with the full moon come and gone, Peter had been strangely melancholy on the ride to school, staring out the window with his hand wrapped securely around Chris’. It isn’t tension, isn’t violence boiling beneath the surface like yesterday. Just…a kind of thoughtful sadness. Chris hates it. Hates that he isn’t certain if it’s something lingering from yesterday, or from Peter’s breakdown the night before, or if it’s just the culmination of the entire fucked up situation. What he is certain of is that he would do anything to make it go away.

His pocket vibrates, and he jumps before he remembers the cell phone there. A couple of those would have been really handy all those times he and Peter had had to track each other down. It’s one of things he’s actually looking forward to about the future, just as long as he can still have Peter by his side. He covertly slides the phone out, keeping an eye on the teacher, who’s blathering on and on about end of year finals.

There’s a text from Peter, and when Chris opens it a small gasp escapes before he almost swallows his tongue. There are no words, just a picture (and only then does he remember Peter questioning Stiles about that). Peter is laying on Chris’ bed, hair still wet from a shower. He’s smiling lazily at the camera, eyes hazy and heavy lidded, and he’s naked from the top of his head, all the way down to where the frame cuts him off, tantalizes inches below his belly button. The coup de grace is his hand, resting low on his abdomen with fingers splayed and fingertips disappearing out of frame with the rest of his hips. It can’t be more obvious what he’d just been doing.

Chris swallows, mouth dry and dick half hard in the middle of class, and then another text buzzes through. 

_Meet me in the bathroom_.

He doesn’t ask permission, just gets up and walks out, ignoring Allison’s hissed _“Get back here!”_

Peter is waiting for him, leaning against a stall door with his hands in his pockets and a pleased smirk on his face. The sadness is gone and that fact heightens every sensation swirling through Chris.

Luckily they’re alone; Chris grabs Peter’s hand and drags him into the largest stall. He takes only half a second to lock the door behind them before burying his hands in Peter’s hair and kissing him deep. He doesn’t stop until they’re both breathing hard, and when he does he steps back, glaring half heartedly at Peter.

“You’re such a jerk, sending me shit like that in the middle of class!”

Peter grins, cat with the canary. “Pretty effective, though, huh?”

Chris leans his head against the wall, rolling it back and forth, and groans, full and heartfelt. “When the hell did you take that anyway?”

“This morning. While you were showering. Wanna guess what I was doing?”

This time Chris turns and bangs his forehead repeatedly against the stall, sound echoing loud in the empty room. “I _know_ what you were doing,” he whimpers. Peter can reduce him to that, because Peter is a little shit.

Peter shuffles behind him, and then heat blankets his back as Peter presses close. He presses kisses up the line of Chris’ neck, wet and biting.

Between kisses he murmurs, “I thought about you fucking me, Chris. I thought about you fucking me and I came so fast. I’m already hard just thinking about it now.”

Chris is already hard, too, a fact Peter discovers as he slides his hand around Chris’ hip and palms his crotch. Chris grinds into his touch, clenching his teeth when Peter flexes against him, and he can feel his dick, stiff and hot, even through their pants.

Peter’s tongue licks across the tendon of his neck. “I want you to fuck me so bad, Chris. I swear I ache with it sometimes.”

Chris rolls his head back and forth, the cool metal distracting from the air panting out from his mouth. “Me too, Petie. I do too.” Peter’s fingers are working his pants open, slipping the button from its hole and sliding the zipper down. They’re a brand wrapping around him, marking him with heat and belonging and he moans shamelessly in response, because if there’s something that no longer has any place in how he feels for Peter, it’s shame. He’d let go of that the moment he’d first kissed him. The moment he’d chanted _mine, mine, mine_ into Peter’s skin in a desperate attempt to make Peter believe him. _Believe_ that he was more to Chris than just the newest dish on the menu. Believe he was _everything_.

Fragments of memories flit through his mind, broken and floating between spikes of pleasure and nonsensical words as Peter tightens his grip and twists his wrist and licks up Chris’ throat.

_“Why in the—” he stumbles over his words and has to pick them up again. “How could you think I would ask some girl out after yesterday?” Somewhere anger is brewing, trapped beneath an inexplicable feeling of betrayal._

_Peter’s eyebrows draw together, like he can’t understand why Chris is even asking the question, but the corners of his lips turn up as he answers, no heat in his voice at all. “Christopher, it’s what you do.” Peter shrugs, the ghost of a smile on his face as he starts shoving books in his locker. “It’s okay. Honest.” He pauses, and his Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows. “It was fun though, right? What we did?” He turns his head just a little to look at Chris. “I mean, you enjoyed it, right?”_

_And in that moment, Peter looks so vulnerable, so incredibly stripped bare in a way even Chris rarely sees that Chris can’t breath, a vise wrapping tight around his chest and constricting his heart._

Peter bites the nape of his neck, pulling him squarely back to the here and now. “Petie! God, Peter! We can’t…the bell’s about to…” His arguments are losing steam, and it’s not like he hasn’t done worse in the school before.

“We can. We _can_. I want to. You want to.” Chris spins around, mourning the loss of Peter’s hand, and grips Peter’s face in his palms. He sweeps his tongue into his mouth, forcing his jaw wide and pressing in so hard he’s afraid he’ll leave bruises.

But he doesn’t stop. He doesn’t stop. He kisses him and kisses him, until his lips are puffy and tingling, until his jaws are aching and his tongue is full of the taste of Peter. His hands have migrated to Peter’s ass and his fingers are digging into the valley between his cheeks.

“I do want to. I do. Oh God, I do.” He nuzzles at Peter’s cheek, as if he can push all the emotion swirling inside him into Peter by sheer force. “Just…later. When we can—”

Peter shoves him off abruptly. “ _Later_. It’s always later with you.” His cheeks are red and his eyes flash. “Well, take a look around you, Christopher. We might not actually _have_ a later. This could be it. Because old us sure as hell doesn’t have any better idea how to get us back than we do! And _you_ are just being a stubborn asshole!”

“Come on, Petie, don’t be mad. _Please_.” He catches Peter’s hand and coaxes him back. “We’ll get back. We’ll get back and go to the cabin and —”

“I don’t think we do,” Peter said flatly.

“We’ll _get back_ , Peter, I _swear_.”

“And what good will it do? We still have no idea what happened. No idea how _we_ become _them_. We’ll just end up doing the same thing. What’s the _point_?”

Peter deflates all at once, shoulders dropping. He reaches out and redoes Chris’ pants. “Come on, we can go get lunch. Lydia will probably make somebody cry, and that’s always fun.”

He opens the stall and is halfway to the door before Chris springs into action, catching up to him and spinning him around. “We won’t, Peter. We won’t. Because we know enough. You aren’t going to leave me, are you?”

Peter shakes his head. “No. _No_.”

“And I’m not leaving you. No matter what. You know that, right? You know…you know you’re mine, yeah? Just like I’m yours?”

Peter’s lips curl up in a tiny smirk. “I think we’re supposed to be in the supply closet for this part.”

“And you’re supposed to be pissed because you think I’m lying to you. But hey,” he smiles crookedly, “I work with what I’ve got.” His smile falls away and he says soberly, “I _am_ yours, Petie. Always. I’m yours _now_ ,” he points vaguely in the direction of the direction of the loft, “when I’m old and cranky and no fun, no matter what I say. I saw me with you yesterday. I was so careful with you. So very careful. And I _know_ me. I’m still yours.”

“And I’m yours,” Peter replied. “Then, now, no matter what. Just as much as I was in the woods. In the supply closet. No matter what, I won’t leave. I swear. I swear.”

“Okay. Okay.” The bell rings as he presses their foreheads together. “And I swear we _will_ fuck. Just as soon as we get back. I’m gonna fuck you so hard we won’t be able to walk for _days_.”

The door slams open on that last bit, and Stiles and Isaac come tumbling in. Stiles skids to a stop, horrified, while Isaac’s mouth drops open. Stiles slams his hands over his ears. 

“Oh my god, _why_? Who did I piss off in a former life to ever have to hear that?”

Peter smirks and Chris slaps him broadly on the shoulder as they pass by. “You’re just jealous you’re not us, Stilinski.”

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

“No! You can’t keep us here! We can help!”

Chris groans, rubbing his hand over his stubble and glaring at the staircase. Peter had disappeared up it half an hour before, ostensibly to “get ready,” leaving it to Chris to break the news to the juniors that they were about to get a babysitter.

“No,” he said patiently, “you can’t. It’s too much of a risk. If you get hurt, it changes the whole course of history. If you get killed-” He lets that thought sit with them for a minute. They’d just come in from the balcony, and his junior is watching him close with narrowed eyes, flicking his Zippo open and closed. Open and closed. Open and clo—

He looks away from the nervous, repetitive twitch. “Allison will be here any moment. She’ll stay until we get back. I suggest you be polite.” While he includes both of them in his pointed stare, he saves just a bit more of steel for his younger self.

“Maybe it’d be better if I died now,” Peter murmured unexpectedly, causing both Chris and Junior to whip their heads around to look at him, “before I become _that_.” He nods toward the stairway. “Save everybody a lot of trouble.” Chris, Jr. is scrambling to protest, face tight and jaw hard, when Peter smirks. “And it’d definitely be better than spending even five minutes with Allison.”

He wants them to think he’s joking, but Chris is not fooled, and he doubts his younger self is either, for all he laughs along merrily with Peter. That could be a problem, because while he can objectively see the point - Peter ending before he even begins his murderous spree - something worse could always be waiting in the wings. Chaos loves a vacuum, and at least they _know_ what the results of Peter’s actions are. Peter dying instead of leaving Beacon Hills… Chris can’t picture it, and there’s something flat and cold in the pit of his stomach when he even tries.

“And what if you get killed out there? When we could have helped?” his younger self protests. “You _know_ I’m good.” And Chris _was_ at that age, although it’s nothing to what he’ll become, tempered by time and experience and sorrow. “If you somehow die, how are we gonna get back? Whose gonna help us?”

Everyone has far too much faith in his ability to fix this, of that he’s sure, but what little trust he’d had in Deaton has been destroyed, so he’s going to have to do something soon. Likely take Peter and pay a certain darach a visit. He doesn’t voice any of that, because it’s something the juniors don’t need to know. He doesn’t know how they’re going to mitigate all the things they’ve already learned.

“I think I’ll be just fine, kid. You just worry about finishing your homework and getting a good night’s sleep. And maybe think about cutting down on the smoking.”

The kid in question is flicking the lighter faster and faster, flipping his cigarette pack over and over in his other hand. “You know,” he says thoughtfully, eyes narrowing to slits as a sly note enters his voice that Chris remembers all too well. He’s about to do something stupid. “You should really be nicer to me.” He shoots a look at Peter before refocusing on Chris. “I mean, you just said it. I could hurt you.”

Chris barely refrains from rolling his eyes. He could be a real shit when he was younger. Not to mention an idiot. “Christ, kid, seriously? You really think—”

“Like, say…” The kid flicks the lighter open and lights it. “If I burnt myself—” he holds the flame perilously close to his forearm, “—you would be fucked, wouldn’t you? Do you think it would burn you at the same time? Bet it would hurt like _hell_. Maybe you ought to rethink keeping us locked up.”

Now Chris does roll his eyes, amused exasperation coloring his tone. “First off, you really think Peter’s going to let you hurt yourself _on purpose_?” Peter’s already proving his point, poised to spring if the kid actually attempts this stupid stunt. “And I hate to disappoint you—” Chris shrugs his jacket off as he speaks, and holds out his arm. “—but I’ve already got one of my own.” The scar is faded from time, but still shiny white enough that it’s quarter sized mark is easy enough to see.

Peter and the kid crowd in with real interest. “Whoa, that is _gnarly_. Where did we get it? Dragons? Burning Arachne? Did it hurt?”

Chris frowns as Peter whispers _“Dragons aren’t really a thing, are they?”_ (They are, but nowhere near how the myths describe them.) “Actually, I can’t really remem—”

“Son of a _bitch!_ ” Somehow in the midst of the kid’s gruesome fascination with his future scars, he’d forgotten to pay attention to his hands. Cigarette box and Zippo had drifted too close, plastic catching the heat from the flame and melting, until a huge glop had falls, landing with sizzling heat on the kid’s arm.

“Wait!” Chris darts out a hand as Peter hisses and moves in and the kid drops both lighter and box. “Don’t rip it o—” He’s too late; the kid panics and tears the plastic away, howling as several layers of skin rip away with it. Chris curses, but dips down to grab the Zippo and snap it shut before it sets the whole loft on fire, then grips the kid’s arm in one hand. 

The burn on his younger self’s forearm is ash white and quarter sized and as he hears Peter come thundering down the stairs in response to the commotion, he very calmly slips the lighter into his pocket and directs the boys to the sink.

“Peter wash your hands before you touch it.” He lets Peter usher the kid into the kitchen area as he stays where he is, mind racing but expression as calm as he can make it. “Then wash his burn with soap and water. More skin will come off; don’t freak out about it. There’s antibiotic ointment in the bathroom. Put on a light coat and then bandage it. He can tell you how.”

By then adult Peter has come up beside him. Chris grabs his arm without explanation and drags him out to the balcony. “We need to talk.”

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * 

Chris slides the door shut and glances back inside. The boys are bent over the sink, Peter’s tongue clenched between his teeth as he concentrates on dressing the burn. Chris runs a thumb over his own scar and takes a deep breath before turning and facing Peter, who is standing by the railing one eyebrow raised. Chris jerks his thumb toward the boys and speaks in a low voice.

“The kid burnt himself.” He turns his arm so his scar is exposed and taps it. “Right here.”

Peter says nothing, but his eyes narrow.

“And Lydia stabbed him—” he lifts his shirt, half expecting Peter to snark something about him expecting more foreplay, but Peter stays silent, “—here.” He draws his forefinger down the thin, faded scar high up on his ribs.

Peter eyes him and says slowly, “That's one hell of a coincidence.”

“I don't think it's a coincidence.” Chris feels the words out carefully. “I wasn’t sure about this one.” He fingers the scar on his ribs. “I wasn’t sure if she stabbed him, and the past changed, so of course I would remember always having it. But this one—” He lets his shirt drop and holds his arm out like an accusation, “—I was showing this to him _before_ he burnt himself.”

Peter is shaking his head but Chris plunges ahead. “Peter, I don’t think them coming here is a change. I don’t think this is something that’s happening. I think this is something that _happened_.”

“-no-”

“I think we did this. I think we came here, I think we--”

“-no-”

Chris continues over him, becoming more sure as he goes. “--came here. We did all of this. You and me. I burnt myself here. I was stabbed here. Remember I could never say exactly where it came from? I just thought I got it training with all the other nicks and bruises from Gerard? And it wasn’t healed when we went to the cabins?” He corrects himself. “When we were supposed to go to the cabins. We did this, Peter. All of it. We saw all of this. And somehow we just --”

“ _No._ ” Peter slams his hand down on the railing so hard it shivers and shakes and cracks. “I don’t remember any of this. And I’m pretty sure you don’t either. If we had done this, we would _know_.”

“We would,” Chris said quietly, “but we don’t.”

“Ergo, we _didn’t_.” Chris opens his mouth but Peter steam rolls over him. “How about this? I’ll walk in there and slit their throats. We’ll see how much this has _already happened_ , then. Or perhaps we’ll push one of them into traffic. If we’ve already done this, we should expect something truly miraculous to occur and spare them. Perhaps the car will sprout wings and _fly_. Really, Christopher, exactly how comfortable are you with this preposterous theory?”

“How do you explain it then, Peter? How do you explain these?” He gestures again to his arm and ribs. “It’s the only thing that makes sense. You _have_ to admit that!”

Peter flings his arm in the direction of his younger self. “I have to do not such thing. Do you really think he would have let Talia move him away if he’d seen all of this? Do you really think _you_ would have let him _leave_? Plan or no plan? We would never have let it happen if _we had known_.”

“Only if we remembered.” Chris moves cautiously closer to Peter, who steps back in equal measure, his eyebrows drawn low and his lips rolled back in a sneer. “Peter, it’s not like we aren’t surrounded by people and things who could make it so we couldn’t.”

“No,” Peter spits out, “we’re surrounded by _three_ people who could make it so we couldn’t. Two of them are _gone_ , and one of them is claiming immunity.”

“So we’re back to Jennifer again.” He’s not surprised Peter would rather focus on violence than on the actual truth of the matter. _He_ would rather focus on that. The idea that they did exactly what the boys murmuring over the kitchen sink are doing and then just… _forgot_ …is entirely disconcerting. The one thing he knows for sure is that the only way he would give up these kind of memories would be by force, not by choice.

And Jennifer Blake has never shown any reticence in using whatever means are necessary to achieve her ends.

As much as he wants to believe it, it feels off; not right. Because as ruthless as Jennifer might be, she always has a _reason_. And try as he might, he can’t think how any of this could fit into her schemes. But that doesn’t mean it isn’t true. They’ll just have to be more persuasive next time they ask. And stop using Derek as the intermediary.

“It could be any of them. They’re all lying, duplicitous snakes.” Which, really, is rich coming from Peter, but Chris keeps that to himself. Peter’s lips curl up in a cold smile. “But Jennifer is a good enough place to start. Third times the charm, don’t you think? And we’ll be all warmed up by the time Deaton gets back.” His smile turns more dangerous, fury creeping in to warm the cool indifference. Then he sniffs and straightens the hem of his sleeve, and with seemingly great effort, his expression smooths out to blankness. “But Jennifer will do for now.” 

Peter looks ready to ride hell bent after Jennifer this second, and while Chris can empathize with finally having something to _do_ , he’s also not _suicidal_. You don’t just walk into a darach’s lair unprepared. Especially a darach with a werewolf for a guardian. He’s not under any illusions that Derek, no matter his inner conflict, will just stand aside for them. He lays a palm on Peter’s forearm.

“But first—”

“Yes, yes,” Peter says impatiently, “We’ll go kill your ghouls. I suppose you think we should let the children help now. Since they so obviously survive.”

Chris shakes his head. “I won’t risk it.” After all, he could be wrong. “And just because _they_ survive, doesn’t mean all of us would. We had a tendency to recklessness. We don't know what that will cost us here and now.”

Peter snorts out a laugh. “A tendency? I seem to recall recklessness was your middle name. _Me_ , on the other hand—”

The balcony door slides open and Allison sticks her head out. “Dad? You sure you don’t want me to come with you?” She looks between he and Peter and his hand on Peter’s arm and Chris has to resist the knee jerk reaction to jerk his hand away. He’s not doing anything wrong.

Peter moves anyway, Chris’ hand falling as he steps around Allison and through the door. “Never fear, Allison. I promise to return your father safe and sound. Just this once.” Peter leaves the door open, and Allison takes his place and gives Chris a hard look.

“Be careful, Dad. Don’t let Peter get behind you.”

He kisses her forehead. “We’ll be fine. I don’t think Peter wants to get eaten any more than the rest of us. Scott coming?”

“Yeah. He just had to pick up his mom from work first. Just remember all of us are on speed dial.”

One corner of his mouth turns up as he nods. “I will.” It’s more of an honest comfort than he ever would have predicted a year ago, although he’s pretty sure he and Peter can handle three ghouls between the two of them.

“There’s supper in the fridge. Make sure you finish your homework.”

* * * * * * * * * * * * * *


	16. Chapter 16

As soon as the door closes behind her father and Peter, Allison takes stock of the situation. While she’s been to Peter’s loft a time or two in the past, it’s mainly been to threaten him or coerce him or make sure he returns one friend or another still in one piece. She’s never really had the opportunity to actually scout it out. Now, however, she has _hours_.

She eyes the staircase leading to Peter’s bedroom. It shouldn’t take much for the juniors to get distracted by each other enough so that she can sneak up there. Any weakness of Peter’s she can find is just money in the bank for the next time he inevitably screws them over. Which hopefully won’t be tonight.

“Hey! Stop staring like you’re deciding what to steal.” Peter’s voice intrudes, pissed off and arrogant.

She wrinkles her nose and rolls her eyes. “That’s rich, coming from the guy who’s dating a juvenile delinquent.

“And _that’s_ rich,” Peter shoots back, “coming from the daughter of said juvenile delinquent.”

“She’s scouting,” Chris leans over and murmurs to Peter, just loud enough that Allison can hear, “looking for tactical weaknesses and locations that need further investigation.” Unlike Peter, he doesn’t look especially perturbed, is just nodding along as if it’s the most natural thing in the world.

“Easy for you to say,” Peter hisses back, “when it’s not your things she’s thinking of rifling through.”

Chris hums sympathetically and presses his forehead to Peter’s, scritching his nails through the nape of his hair. Peter’s eyelids fall half closed as he pushes closer, and when he hums back, it sounds disturbingly close to a purr. Allison makes a dramatic gagging noise as she turns her back on them and dumps her book bag out on the kitchen island, only to whirl back around when she hears Peter say, “What? Jealous because your daddy never looked at your mommy like that?”

She stabs a finger at him, voice icy cold. “You ever talk about my mother again, I’ll put an arrow through your heart. Understand?”

Chris squints his eyes and folds his arms, looking between the two of them like he’s trying to decide if things are really about to escalate, while Peter throws up his hands with an amused smirk. “Looks like _somebody’s_ a little touchy tonight. I’m pretty sure your dad’s already told you you can’t hurt us.”

“My dad’s told me a lot of things. Doesn’t mean I have to listen.”

Chris does move then, stepping between the two of them. There are lines around his mouth and something so weary on his face that it almost obscures the sadness that slips into his eyes. She would have missed it, if it wasn’t the same expression she’s seen on her father’s face a dozen of times over the last two years.

“Stop,” he says firmly, looking her dead in the eye. Then he turns to Peter. “Please, Petie. I’m _tired_. I can’t do it tonight.”

Peter’s eyes widen and every last bit of pique is instantly wiped from his face. He nods. “Yeah. Okay. Come on.” He grabs Chris’ hand and tugs him toward the table where their books are already out and open. “We can do homework.”

Chris’ smile is grateful and fond and _Christ_ , they piss her off even when they’re not trying. She huffs as she slides onto a stool and opens her own books, doing her best to ignore the guilty feeling that she’s given her father _that_ look, no matter the fact he’s seventeen years old and an asshole in his own right. She supposes it’s not fair to blame them for what they’ll do in the future, just like it’s not fair for them to blame her for the fact she freaking _exists_. Doesn’t mean any of them won’t still do it, though. Especially when Peter makes it so _easy_.

For awhile it’s quiet, punctuated only by the scratch of pencil on paper or the click of calculator buttons. Then Peter gets up and turns on, well, Peter’s sound system. She manages not to make a comment when he chooses a classic 80s station, and the next time she looks over, both he and Chris are tapping their feet and singing under their breath to _Don’t You Forget (About Me)_ as they concentrate intently on working through a calculus equation. She discreetly pulls out her cell phone and records a video. If there’s one thing she’s learned from Stiles, it’s that blackmail opportunities are not to be missed. 

She shares the video with the rest of the pack and gets replies ranging from Lydia’s _Oh my God, your dad and Peter were so laaaaame_ , to Isaac’s _Awwww_ , accompanied by a heart eyed emoji (She likes Isaac, she really does, but sometimes she still wants to beat him over the head.) Scott still hasn’t arrived, and by the time she finishes outlining her essay, her stomach is reminding her, loudly, that it does not appreciate going without food.

She’s in the middle of making a peanut butter and jelly sandwich when Peter comes up beside her. She grips the butter knife a little tighter, but otherwise just keeps spreading peanut butter across the bread, refusing to acknowledge him.

He speaks quietly as he rifles through the cabinets and comes up with a bag of potato chips, glancing over his shoulder to make sure Chris can’t hear. “I don’t like you.” But it’s said without heat, as if he’s simply stating a fact.

“Feeling’s mutual,” she whispers back sweetly.

“ _But_ ,” he plows on, “I suppose if I killed you, it would hurt him. In one incarnation or the other. So I won’t.”

She reopens the bread bag and takes out four more slices. “And I suppose if I killed you, it would hurt my dad. In one incarnation or the other. So I won’t, either.”

They share a brief look and then Peter gives a sharp nod. While she finishes the sandwiches he opens the refrigerator and pulls out three Dr. Peppers, then opens the bag of chips and deposits small heaps on three paper plates. After she drops sandwiches on them, he slides one of the Dr. Peppers to her, then wordlessly takes two of the plates and returns to the table and Chris. 

Chris doesn’t look up from the problem he’s on, just wraps an arm around Peter’s waist and goes back to chewing on his eraser. Peter gently tugs the pencil from his mouth and replaces it with a sandwich.

“Eat.”

Chris starts, then looks chagrined. “Oh. Right. Okay. Thanks.”

“She made the sandwiches.”

Chris has already taken a bite, so he just nods and grunts and raises the sandwich in her direction. Which she’ll assume is a thank you.

Peter exchanges Chris’ sandwich for a chip, and then keeps poking and prodding until Chris has eaten the entire plate. It’s so much like how Scott is with her that for a moment she can barely breathe.

As if her thoughts had conjured him - and this is Beacon Hills, so for all she knows, they _did_ \- her phone buzzes through a text from Scott.

_Your dad called and asked me to meet him at the preserve. Headed there now._

Her forehead wrinkles as she types back. _Why?_

A minute passes while she taps her pencil impatiently on the side of the island and then her phone buzzes again.

_I don’t know. I’ll text as soon as I do. <3 U! Don’t shoot anybody!_

A grin creeps over her face even as an unspecified worry starts in her stomach. _Thx. <3 U 2. No promises!_

His only reply is an emoji with googly eyes and she puts the phone back down and turns back to her work. 

Thirty minutes pass, and then an hour. Peter and Chris have migrated from their homework to the balcony, and the thin scent of cigarette smoke wafts in through the closed doors. She honestly has no idea how Peter, with heightened senses, can even stand to be around it. But when she glances out, they are standing hip to hip and shoulder to shoulder, and every once in a while Peter will steal the cigarette from Chris and take a drag himself.

At first she’s fine, only glancing at her phone every now and then. But as time passes, she starts checking more and more often. Now? Her concentration is shot, she can’t tell one equation from the other, and she finally gives in and texts Scott. She waits five minutes, gets no response, and calls Stiles.

Peter and Chris come back in as it rings, so they’re there to witness when Stiles picks up and she doesn’t wait before immediately asking, “Have you heard from Scott?”

_“Not since he headed toward you. Why? And oh my GOD, your dad is such a dork!”_

She makes a face. “He’s not my dad. Not yet. And Scott ended up going to help my _actual_ dad and Peter at the preserve. Didn’t Dad call you, too?”

Chris’ ears perk up at that, but she just does not have time for him right now. Stiles’ answers aren’t giving her any comfort. 

_“Nah. I had no clue. You try texting him?”_

That’s a last resort. Texting or calling in the middle of a hunt is always a risky endeavor, but she thinks they’ve reached that point. “Not yet. But I will. Just…get everybody ready, just in case.”

She hangs up and sends the text, and then lifts her head to find Peter and Chris staring her down.

“What’s wrong?” Chris asks.

She shakes her head. “Nothing. Don’t worry about it.”

“Bullshit. Besides, Peter could totally hear the other end of that.”

“Fine. Dad called Scott for help. And now I can’t get in touch with either of them.”

Chris is already reaching for his jacket. “Then let’s go.”

“No. No. You’re not going anywhere. You know that. You can’t. And we can take care of things just fine on our own.” She takes a look at her still quiet phone while Peter scoffs.

“Right. You and Goldilocks and I’m-So-Nice-I’m-Vomit-Inducing and Mr. Spastastic. Wow. Yeah. I’m _so_ reassured now. We can just sit back and eat bon-bons all night!”

“Don’t forget Lydia and Danny and the twins,” she said sourly. “And yeah, you can be reassured. We’ve protected this town for years now.”

“Sure,” Chris says, his face thoughtful, “with your dad and Peter to help—”

“Peter is generally the person we’re protecting it from,” she corrects, then muses, “him or Derek’s girlfriend.”

Peter looks confused while Chris just mows over what she’s said. “Okay, yeah, whatever. And I’m not saying you’re not capable. At least you and Lydia.”

She tries not to feel pleased at the recognition, scowling as he continues.

“But it can’t hurt to have more help. And if something’s wrong? If something’s gotten to your dad and Peter? It has to be bad. You _need_ us. The other wolves are all bitten, right? Peter is _born_. That means he can track them practically on instinct! And have you ever hunted ghouls? Because I have! I know what to do. How to kill them! Do you want them to die because you’re being stubborn? Besides, aren’t you the one who just said you didn’t always do what you were told?”

She’s wavering, his arguments and her worry for her father doing their job, when her phone _finally_ vibrates a text notification. Relieved she won’t have to make the call on jeopardizing her father’s life by trying to save his life, she pulls it up. And as it turns out, her relief is short lived. The text is from Stiles, not her dad.

_Can’t get in touch with Scott. Any luck with your dad?_

She texts back a quick _No_ and has barely hit ‘send’ before he’s texting back.

_Isaac and I are heading out. Lydia is grabbing the murder twins and Danny. Text when you get there._

She grinds her jaw and looks back up at Chris and Peter.

“It wasn’t him, was it?” It’s a question, but Chris says it more as a statement of fact. “We’re wasting time. You _know_ we’re wasting time!”

She only hesitates one second more. “Let’s go. I’ve got weapons in the trunk already.”

* * * * * * * * * * * * 

There’s a motorbike and a jeep already in the clearing when they get to the preserve, but no people. Chris has been to the preserve a thousand times before, both with Peter and training with Gerard, and apparently will go a thousand more times in the future. It’s changed a bit in the intervening years, but not so much that he doesn’t immediately feel at home, more sure of his feet than he has the entire span he’s been in this future time. Beside him, Peter’s muscles relax just the tiniest bit, and Chris knows he’s feeling the same.

Allison, though, swears when she sees the cars. It’s hard to conceptualize the fact that she’s his daughter, and somehow even harder to wrap his mind around the fact she won’t ever exist if he and Peter somehow manage to fix this mess, even though it hadn’t bothered him one bit just a couple of weeks ago. It feels like a betrayal of Peter, and it doesn’t mean he’ll hesitate one bit when the time comes, but still, the regret manages to exist. For all he knows, every single kid his adult self protects will cease to exist when he and Peter change their fate. And still, he’ll choose Peter over a hundred of them, every single time.

“I can’t believe they didn’t wait. Those jerks!” Allison is tumbling out of the car almost before she puts it into park. “If he gets Isaac killed I swear I’m gonna shoot him before he gets the chance to be eaten!” There’s not a cloud in the sky, and the moon is so bright it almost gives the illusion of street lights. It will get worse, the deeper they get into the preserve, but right now they don’t need flashlights or supernatural talents to see.

“So what’s the deal with you guys?” Chris asks as she’s opening the trunk to reveal the drool inducing armory he’d only briefly seen before they’d left.

“Huh?” He can tell her mind’s not really on them as she passes him two guns. Peter declines when Chris presses one into his hands, but Chris insists, widening his eyes in a silent plea that Peter accepts with a distinct lack of grace. He takes the gun and thigh holster gingerly, but straps it on with the ease born of a hundred times of watching Chris do the same.

“You and Scott and Isaac.” She slaps a set of brass knuckles tipped with claw like spikes into his palm. Huh. Nice. “Scott’s your boyfriend, but Isaac is like, always with you guys.”

“He’s not always with us. He hangs out with Stiles a lot, too.”

She rounds out his weaponry with another knife (” _Careful, the blade is tipped_ ”) and a wire garrott. Then she straps a crossbow across her back, throws a couple of flash bombs in an already full small duffel, and slams the trunk shut. 

“Yeah, but most of the time it’s the two of you. Or one of you,” he insists, Peter nodding along in agreement. “And you didn’t seem especially worried about Stiles staying alive just now.”

“That’s because Stiles can take care of himself. I don’t know,” she shrugs as they approach the perimeter of trees, “Scott was really important to him right after he was turned. Derek was in a really bad place and Scott stepped in. I almost killed him a few times,” she drops absentmindedly and then furrows her brow. “I’ve never really thought about it, to be honest. He’s our friend.

She looks pointedly at Peter. “Can you catch a scent?”

As Peter inhales deep, Chris says quietly to Allison, “Maybe you should.” He doesn’t know if she actually hears him, because Peter points northwest and says right on his heels, “All their scents go that way. Stiles’ and Isaac’s are the strongest, so they went last. Are we waiting on the others?”

She doesn’t look like she even considers, peering into the darkness with deadly concentration and shaking her head. “No. The twins can follow our scent. We can’t waste time.”

Chris doesn’t point out that was likely the reasoning Stiles and Isaac had used to leave them behind, just follows behind her as she sets out, Peter beside him. Allison walks quiet, almost as quiet as Chris, but Peter walks preternaturally so, the ground making no noise beneath his feet. It’s a reminder that Peter is other, that something more than human roils under his skin. His father would find it disgusting, but for Chris it’s just another facet of Peter, just an integral part of his best friend and the boy he loves.

Chris has his gun out, held low against his hip, and Allison has her crossbow ready at her shoulder. Peter…Peter is empty handed, hands shoved in pockets as he scents at the wind.

“Take your gun out, Petie.”

Peter side eyes him and shakes his head. “Why?”

“Because you should be _prepared_. I don’t want you to get _hurt_.”

“Christopher.” Peter’s voice is amused and infinitely patient. “I’m carrying this to humor you. Because you’ll be safer if you aren’t worried about me. I’m not gonna actually _use_ it.” He grins and pulls his hands from his pockets, flashing claws and fangs as his eyes go yellow. “I’ve got my own weapons.”

Chris catches Peter’s hand and tugs him to him, careful to keep his gun from between them. “One, you idiot, I’m always gonna worry about you, whether you have a weapon or not.” He kisses Peter fast and hard, feeling the tip of one fang catch on his bottom lip. “And two, if we’re outnumbered, you’ll _need_ the gun. And you’re   
the only person here I trust at my back.”

“I’m _right here_ ,” Allison hisses.

Chris shrugs unapologetically as Peter grins at him then goes back to scenting. “Peter’s been my best friend for four years. I’ve known you for less than two weeks. And I’m not sure I even like you.”

Allison balances her crossbow across her shoulder and grins, hair bouncing as she turns back to the hunt. “But you’re not sure, huh? That’s progress.”

“Well,” Peter sniffs, the corners of his lips twitching, “you can tell who she inherited her ego from.” Then he freezes, head tipped back and nostrils flaring. He spins hard to the left and starts forward at a trot. “This way.”

A broken branch catches Chris’ eye. “Look, there’s a—”

“—broken foliage,” Allison finishes, already there and examining the break. “It’s fresh. And there’s—”

“—blood.” Peter whispers. He inhales deeply and then looks at Chris, eyes wide. “It’s yours.”

“But it’s only a couple of drops.” Allison shifts back and forth on her feet, scanning the ground around them. “He could have just gotten a splinter. We shouldn’t jump to conclu—”

“Hang on.” A twig caught between two branches catches Chris’ eye. It’s oddly straight for the wildness of the forest and as he stretches out a hand, one end of it glints strangely, caught by the moonlight.

“It’s a dart,” he breathes. His hands are bare, as are Peter’s, but Allison is wearing fitted leather gloves. The dart is just out of reach of his fingertips, which means it’ll be a good three inches away from Allison’s.

“Let me boost you?” he asks.

“Yeah, sure.”

He crouches and laces his fingers together and Allison steps into them, one hand steadying herself on his shoulder. Her balance is good, better than his, but as he lifts and she wavers a little too far to one side, Peter is there, his hand against Allison’s side to keep her centered.

She plucks the dart from the tree. “Got it!” She hops down and the three of them crowd around it. There’s a dark stain on the tip and Peter wrinkles his nose.

“Smells…wrong. _Bad_.” Peter can’t magically identify things he’s never come into contact with, but werewolves, like all primal things, have damn good instincts about what might damage them. 

“Poison?” Chris offers.

“Yeah. Or some kind of drug. The blood doesn’t smell like it, so I don’t think it hit your dad.” That he offers to Allison, whose mouth has drawn up tight as she stares the thing down. “But I don’t think they’re the only thing hunting.”

He bends close and scents again, nose almost but not quite touching. Then he straightens and shrugs. “I don’t know why I did that. I don’t even know what ghoul smells like. You?” He eyes the both of them. Allison shakes her head, but Chris crinkled his nose and considered.

“We hunted them once. When we killed them, they smelled…dead. But not…not dead like _rotten_. I don’t know how else to describe it. Like dirt filled with old vegetable tops and…and sour laundry. I don’t know how else to describe it. But mainly like dirt.”

Peter is staring at him, a tiny smile on his face, and Chris looks down and clears his throat. “Anyway.”

“Okay, ah, keep a nose out for…dirty vegetable stems.” Allison takes charge and slings her crossbow back over her shoulder. “Let’s go.”

They follow the direction the adults’ scents had taken, Allison in front, Peter in the middle, and Chris taking up the rear. He’s pretty sure Peter thinks he’s protecting him by keeping him in back, and Chris isn’t about to tell him hunting parties keep their most vulnerable members in the middle.

They creep along for another half hour, without hearing or seeing any sign, but the preserve is ancient, and expansive, with nooks and crevices even Peter’s family don’t know about, and the adults are hours ahead. He’d thought they would have caught up to Stiles and Isaac by now, though, but he doesn’t bring it up because Allison’s shoulders are so tight he thinks they’d shatter if he even touched them.

He can’t be too bad of a father if she’s that worried about him. He’s hopes to God he’s nothing like Ger—

“Stop,” Peter whispers urgently, and Allison pulls up so fast they almost start a pile up.

“What?”

“Vegetable dirt,” he says. “That way.” His finger points steady to the right and perpendicular of their current trajectory.

“And my dad?”

Peter curls his lip, probably in response to the fact she hasn’t once asked about signs of his older self, but answers readily enough. “Yeah, I can smell them, too. Not as strong as this way,” he swings back to the path they’re on, “but the scent is there.”

“Maybe this path’s newer?” Chris offers, “or maybe they doubled back, and that’s why it’s stronger.”

“Can you smell Scott at all? Or Stiles and Isaac?”

Peter shakes his head at Allison’s query. “Not at all. I haven’t smelled them for the last two hundred yards.”

“And you didn’t _say anything_?” Allison hisses, eyes narrowing dangerously. Peter just shrugs.

“I thought we were here to look for us.”

“Oh my _god_ , you stupid, self centered—”

Chris cuts them off. “We have to pick a way to go.” He pauses then looks to Allison. “What do you think?”

She starts, then tilts her head as she looks at him with a furrowed brow, but finally she lifts one shoulder and says, “Toward the vegetable dirt.”

“You know, that’s not exactly how I described—”

“Close enough. And easier to say. I want to find Dad and Peter. But if we can find the ghouls and eliminate them…”

Chris nods. “That’s our first priority. Our job.”

“You know,” Peter’s mouth twists, “I’m not sure you’re right. Pretty sure that’s not the healthiest perspective here. Self preservation should probably rank a little—”

Both Allison and Chris shake their heads in tandem. “Our job is to protect the people around us,” Chris says.

“Dad would want us to,” Allison adds.

Peter makes a noise that’s a mixture between a groan and a laugh. “It’s so much worse when there are two of you. And I’m pretty sure your _dad_ ,” he gives Allison a pointed look, “would rather you be safe and alive.”

Not his dad, Chris thinks, which is why, of course, Peter didn’t say it. He’s probably right about Chris’ older self, too, but right here and now, she’s just another hunter, just another soldier, and he can only expect her to fight like any other soldier would.

Peter looks between them and shakes his head. “Fine. But just for the record—” he sticks his finger in Chris’ face, “I’m telling old you this was not my idea. Because I know you, and I know you are gonna be _pissed_.” Chris snickers, which makes Peter dart in and kiss him hard. 

“We’ll be fine,” Chris assures him as they set off. “It’s _ghouls_. On a scale of one to ten, they’re, like, a _two_ in badassness.”

“Said every hunter ever before they got _killed_ ,” Peter mutters, but he loses the mulish set to his jaw and instead trades it for keeping fangs and claws out. They creep at a slower pace than before, sliding between trees and crouching behind rises. It’s when they crest one of those rises and abruptly encounter a sheer rock face, opened up by a jagged hole in the middle, that Chris pulls up short. 

Then looks around.

Then grins.

It’s changed some; the trees have grown tall, and the surrounding plant life has gone wild, but it’s still recognizable.

“I know where we are. Petie, do you--”

Peter nods and grins, and they exchange a long, frankly dopey look.

“Oh my _God_ ,” Allison breaks in. “Please tell me this wasn’t your hook up spot.”

Peter raises his nose in the air and says imperiously. “None of your business.”

“ _Gross_. I swear this whole thing is punishment for the time Dad walked in on me and Scott.”

“Ew. Your dad seriously walked in on you guys?” Chris doesn’t have to fake his horror. If Gerard ever caught he and Peter… But Allison seems more grossed out than scarred, so he doubts her dad’s - _his_ \- reaction had been anything close to what Gerard’s would have been.

“It was traumatic,” she assures him.

Peter is sniffing at the air again, and he reaches out and whacks Chris on the shoulder. “There’s vegetable dirt all over this place. It goes in.” He nods toward the cave opening.

Focused again, Chris can see the ground around the mouth is packed down, trodden over numerous times and made flat from use. For the first time Allison pulls out a flashlight, and then he can pick out at least three different sets of footprints in the earth. He feels somehow offended that the ghouls have used this particular place as a meeting spot.

“They must have stayed here,” Allison voices. “Might still be there. Peter, can you hear anything?”

It’s the first time she’s ever addressed him by his name and while neither of them seem to notice, Chris does.

Peter shakes his head. “Nothing. But…” his nostrils flare as he scents again. “I think…I think I smell…” he looks to Chris. “ _Us_.”

“It’s a dead end. Only about a hundred feet deep. It’ll only take a couple of minutes to check it out and then—”

Allison unslings her crossbow and nods. “Let’s go.”

He’s right at her heels when she steps over the threshold. He doesn’t see the wire, doesn’t hear the click - doesn’t even know there’s a click until much later - but suddenly Peter is screaming _“Watch out! Get back, get back!”_

But it’s too late and there’s a sharp crack and then the mouth of the cave is falling in around them. He shoves Allison forward, tumbling after her under the force of his own momentum, and there’s the sound of plastic shattering as the flashlight flies through the air and hits a wall and goes dark. Then there’s dust, and noise, and he’s choking on sand and gravel and as he crashes to the ground his foot catches on a slide of pebbles and twists painfully to the side.

“Fuck, fuck, _fuck_!”

Everything settles, and he’s in the pitch black, and for half a second everything is so quiet he wonders if he somehow damaged his hearing in the blast. Then, across the barrier of rubble and twisted wood, he hears Peter’s voice.

“Chris. _Christopher_! If you’re dead, I swear to God I will _kill_ you.”

“I’m not—” He takes a deep breath and coughs around a mouthful of dust. “I’m not dead.”

There’s a scrabbling sound and Allison’s outline, blacker than the black that blankets them, crawls up beside him. “I’m okay too, thanks for asking.”

A weak beam of light illuminates the cave as Allison flicks on a second flashlight she fishes out from her pack and sets it on the floor between them. Chris rolls onto his back and peers at the dimly lit roof.

“This was a trap,” he says to the ceiling.

“No shit, Sherlock,” Peter answers from outside. “The whole thing was rigged to go. I swear to God I’m gonna rip them to pieces.”

“Pretty sure my dad’s gonna get there first,” Allison offers, supremely confident.

The cave in has completely blocked the entrance, so tight there’s not even a hint of an opening. “Can you get us out, Petie?”

“I don’t…Maybe. I can probably move some of the rocks but…hold on.”

Chris can hear Peter cursing under his breath and then the skin crawling sound of rock on rock. For a minute there’s only that but suddenly they’re choking in a flurry of dust that grows to a shower of pebbles.

They scramble back, Chris wincing as he tries his ankle but more concerned about not being buried alive than the pain.

“Petie, stop! Stop stop stop stop stop!” 

The waterfall of pebbles abruptly ceases, a few stragglers falling in rattling heaps to the floor before everything is silent again. The flashlight is spinning on its side, but still working, and crazy patterns of light swish in sickening patterns across the walls until it settles.

Chris’ breath comes fast and shallow and he tries to calm his racing heartbeat, and beside him, Allison doesn’t sound much better.

“Are you okay?” Peter’s panicked voice grounds him.

“Yeah, yeah, we’re alright.”

“I don’t think I can do it. I don’t know how to keep it from collapsing. I don’t know…I don’t know what to do.”

“Find my dad,” Allison says. “Find my dad and Peter. They’ll know what to do. They’ll be able to get us out.”

“Chris?” Peter’s voice is plaintive and Chris crawls back to the opening and puts his hand against the rock.

“It’s okay. I’m okay. You gotta go. You’re the only one who can find them. It won’t fall in while you’re gone.” He hopes.

“You don’t know that.”

“Okay, no, I can’t. I can’t. But Petie -” He takes a deep breath and forces his voice calm and even. “Peter. You have to go. You’re the only one that can help. We can’t get out on our own and you can’t get us out on our own. So I need you to go find us.” Then he giggles despite himself. “We’re the only ones that can help us.”

Peter’s snickers float through. “Father Mitchell did say the lord helps those who help themselves.”

How Peter remembers that from the one time Chris had dragged him along to St. Marks, because a girl Chris wanted to date went there and if Chris had to suffer, Peter did, too, he has no clue. But he’s calmer now and so is Chris. That’s just the way it’s always been with them.

Peter’s voice is resolute when he speaks again. “Okay. I’m going. I’ll be back soon. Promise.”

“I’ll be here. Promise. Petie…” Chris digs his fingers into the rock. “I love you. Be safe.”

“Love you too, idiot. Be alive.”

Chris waits another few seconds, but there’s nothing but silence and he knows Peter’s gone. He draws in a deep breath, thinks about the outside chance of oxygen running out and suffocating to death, then swings back around on his ass to face Allison.

She has her knees pulled up to her chin and her arms wrapped around them. He copies her posture. “So…now we wait.”

She nods, short and choppy. “Now we wait.”

* * * * * * * * * * *


	17. Chapter 17

They stare at each other in silence for a long minute, and then Allison fidgets and clears her throat.

“So, yeah, while we’re waiting, maybe we should—” She nods her head toward where the cave disappears into darkness.

“Yeah, yeah,” he brushes his hands off and pushes to his feet, gingerly shifting the weight to his good ankle. “We may as well see what’s there.”

She snags the flashlight and leads the way, Chris limping along behind her. It hasn’t changed much in the last twenty years, other than the footprints scattered through the dust. It doesn’t take much time to reach the rear of the cave, and he supposes they’re lucky no animals have taken residence.

The beam of the flashlight illuminates a pile of sleeping bags, all neatly rolled and stacked against the wall.

“I guess this is where they were camping,” he says needlessly.

“Hey, look at this.” Allison is standing over a jumbled pile of clothes, and when he joins her she uses her shoe to lift one of the shirts. “This is my dad’s.” She shakes it off and toes at a v-neck. “And I think this is Peter’s. I’m pretty sure all of these belong to one of the two of them.”

He squints and says what they’re both thinking. “This entire place is a set up. They purposely wanted it to smell like us and them. They know your dad has werewolves with him. This was all planned. This whole thing was planned. How would they even have gotten these?”

“ _Why_ would they even have gotten these? Why are they trying to find them?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” he says absently, looking around the cave, still feeling slightly offended he and Peter’s safe place has been made into death trap. “Maybe they weren’t totally cool with just waiting around to be killed. Sometimes Supers are funny like that. Ghouls look just like us. They could have been in town for days for all we know.”

“But the MacArthur’s just told dad today—”

He shrugs. “I don’t know. I don’t know.”

He grimaces as he accidentally puts weight on his bad ankle and Allison seems to notice for the first time.

“Did you get hurt?”

“It’s fine. Just twisted it. I’ll be fine.”

She rolls her eyes. “God, you sound like my dad. Sit down,” she orders.

He obeys, because really, what’s the point of fighting about it, and he’s been trained his whole life to defer to the women in the family. She crouches by his ankle and rolls his jean leg up and wrinkles her nose as she presses and prods and turns it this way and that.

“Hey, careful,” he hisses, when she pushes at a particular sore spot.

“I don’t think it’s broken,” she finally says.

“No duh. I _told_ you it was fine.”

“It’s not fine. It’s sprained. It’s gonna slow us down if we have to run. Hold on.”

She searches around on the floor and comes up with a short, sturdy stick and then fishes around in her bag until she comes up with a roll of gauze. With quick, efficient motions she splints and wraps his ankle, then sits back and brushes her hands off.

He circles his ankle experimentally. “That’s a good splint.”

“Thanks,” she says, then pauses before adding, “You taught me how.”

“Oh.” They pointedly look at anything except each other until the awkwardness passes, and then Allison’s expression turns more inquisitive.

“So.” She peers around the space again. “Was this really you and Peter’s hook up spot?”

“Um, no. Well, sorta. I mean, it’s the place we first, um—”

“Had sex? _Really_?”

“Er, no. Kissed.” He can feel his cheeks getting warm. Christ, he _hates_ that. One day he’s going to figure out how to control his stupid tendency to blush when he gets embarrassed. He looks down at his sneakers. “We haven’t…uh…you know.” His cheeks are on _fire_ now.

Allison’s jaw doesn’t actually drop, but he gets the distinct impression it would if she had less self control. “Are you kidding me? You’re kidding, right? It’s obvious how into each other you are.”

He jerks his head up to look at her, a surprised grin brightening his face. “Really?”

She rolls her eyes and grimaces. “Shut up. Just because I know he turns out to be a freaking psychopath who keeps trying to kill us all doesn’t mean I can’t see how crazy the two of you are about each other. Now. I mean then. You know what I mean.”

He’s pretty sure he and Peter are _still_ crazy about each other. In the present. Or the future. _Here_. Or whatever. He knows what he means. But he’s not going to press the point. Instead he nods as one corner of his mouth curls up. “Thanks.”

“So seriously…you really haven’t? Like…you’re all over each other. And it’s not like you just started dating.”

“What? It’s not like it’s a big deal or anything.” He stares at the ground, drawing abstract shapes in the dirt with his finger. “I just, you know, want to make sure he knows how serious I am about it. About him. That it’s not just, you know, —” He trails off helplessly and shrugs.

“About you wanting to get into his pants?” He peeks up at her in time to see her close her eyes and shake her head and mutter something that sounds suspiciously like _I can’t believe I’m having this conversation_ before she continues. “I’m pretty sure he knows that. And I’m gonna go ahead and guess he really wants to. And you _obviously_ want to. So I’m not buying it.”

“You don’t…you don’t _get_ it.” He bangs his head back against the rock several times, a frustrated noise escaping his mouth before he straightens back up. “Look. I’ve dated a lot of girls. A _lot_ of girls. Some of them I wasn’t even dating. I don’t know why…I didn’t…I didn’t really think about it. I don’t think I meant to…to…” he makes a vague, helpless gesture with his hands, “…Peter tells me I treated them like…like they were interchangeable.”

“Oh my _God_.” Allison is staring at him like she’s never seen him before. “My dad was a _player_.”

He doesn’t know what to say to that, so he doesn’t. “And Peter…Peter was there for all of that. He saw it.”

“Okay, yeah, but I’m pretty sure he knows it’s not like that with you guys.”

“But he didn’t…he didn’t. You don’t know…You don’t…” He slaps the flat of his hand repetitively against the ground as he tries to find the right words. “I kissed him. I kissed him and the next fucking day he thought I was asking some girl out. He _expected_ it. He was the only…the only person I gave a _fuck_ about for years. He was my best friend and he knew that and he still thought I was just…I was just…that I had somehow figured out I liked guys and he was just the next new thing to try. Like I would ever risk screwing up the only fucking important thing to me if I didn’t _mean_ it.” Some of his original anger and horror creeps back in as he goes, and the breath is hissing hard between his teeth by the time he finishes. 

“But he _did_ think it. Because of _me_.” He jabs himself hard in the chest. “And he didn’t even…He didn’t even…He wasn’t even _mad_ he had expected it so much. Did you know…did you know…he was more fucking concerned with making sure I had _liked_ it. Kissing him. That it wasn’t something I _regretted_. It was like everything in my life had _finally made sense_ and he just thought I was _passing through_.”

Allison is staring at him, eyes round and mouth open, but when he finally winds down, she blinks rapidly and takes a deep breath. “Wow. Okay. Been storing that up for awhile?”

He shrugs. “Who else was I gonna tell?”

“Eh. Point. Okay. So. Massive misunderstanding at the beginning. But he obviously doesn’t think that now.”

Chris nods. “I know. I know.” Hadn’t thought it more than thirty minutes after Chris had realized what the hell was going on, as a matter of fact. “But I just want it to be perfect. _Don’t laugh_. I do! Peter deserves it. I just want to do something right for once.”

Her nose is wrinkled again. “You sound like you’re waiting for some magical moment. You know it doesn’t happen like that.”

“Okay, yeah,” he protests, “but a _bed_ would be nice. And knowing someone’s not gonna bust in on us.” Like his dad. Or _Talia_. “Peter should at least have that for his first—” He snaps his mouth shut, realizing he’s said more than he wanted to, but it’s too late.

“Peter is a _virgin_?”

“Shut up. _Shut up_! It’s none of your business!”

“Sorry, but you’re the one who just dumped your business all over me! I just…wow. _Wow_. Between the two of you he would not have been my guess.”

She’s stupid, he thinks, aware the assessment is both unkind and unfair and not even accurate, but not caring. “You should know better than making assumptions.” Chris had never understood why Peter had never taken full advantage of all the girls that had lined up for him, of all the girls _Chris_ had shoved at him, in an effort to be the most awesome wingman ever, not until he’d seen Peter kiss another guy through the smoke and the haze of a seedy club on the outskirts of the seedy side of town. But as hypocritical as he _knows_ it is, and as much as it wouldn’t have changed the way he wanted Peter if he _hadn’t_ been a virgin, Chris is still glad he is. Glad he’ll be the first, last, and only person to put his imprint on Peter. To claim Peter as his.

It’s gross, he’s aware, but he still feels furious at his older self for screwing that up.

“ _Anyway_ ,” he says, “it’s not like it’s forever.” He smirks smugly. “We’ve rented this cabin up at Molina. Stilinski’s telling his parents we’re all going camping, but he’s really skipping town with Claudia, and me and Peter get the whole weekend.”

“Yeah? When’s that?”

He grins big. “Couple weeks.”

“I can see why you want to get back.”

“Right? I was thinking I could sneak into the _Blue Boutique_ and —”

Allison holds her hand up. “Uh uh uh. Too much. Try to remember you’re my _father_.”

“Not yet,” he mutters.

She picks a thread off her sleeve and then her lips twitch into a smirk. “ _Soooo_ , in a couple weeks you’re gonna pop Peter’s big ‘ole cherry. I’m going to find a way to hold that over his head _forever_.”

Chris’ mouth drops open and Allison herself looks a tiny bit horrified at what she’d just done. Then she shrugs. “I hang out with Stiles. It was bound to happen.”

“Stilinski’s totally the same. You should see what he does…when…”

He trails off as all expression disappears from Allison’s face. “What? Does Stilinski do something too? Is he some kind of secret killer or something?!”

That startles Allison back to reality. “No! Oh my God, _no_. Sheriff Stilinski’s, like…totally Neutral Good.” He squints at her and she shakes her head. “Sorry. Stiles again.”

“Then what?”

“Nothing. Really. Just…you said you were going in a couple of weeks?”

“Uh..yeah.” There’s something on her face that reminds him of the look on the adult Peter’s face that first morning when he’d mentioned the cabins. 

“It’s, what, September there?”

“No, October. _Why_?” He’s not stupid. He’d have been dead on the first hunt Gerard abandoned him if he was. So there’s something about the cabins. Something he needs to find out.

“No reason. Really. Just curious.”

She’s lying, but one thing he’s learned is that Allison’s jaw speaks louder than anything she might verbally say. And right now her jaw is telling him hell will freeze over before she tells him what she knows. There’s no use wasting his time right now. He’ll have to bid his time and wait for the right opening to strike.

“Okay. Sure.” He shifts around, trying to find a more comfortable position among the rocks poking holes in his ass. “So. You and Scott. How did that happen?”

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Peter runs. Unhampered now by humans, who slow him down and fetter him to the earth and force him to keep himself held by a choke leash, he runs. On all fours, fully shifted, nose to the earth or scenting the air, he runs. He picks up the trail they first abandoned, racing along the thick, braided scent of he and Chris. He and Chris seasoned by years he has yet to see and flavored by a kind of sadness and despair both of them have yet to know.

After the scent forks, it’s only another hundred yards before Stiles and Scott and Isaac’s scents rejoin his and Chris’. It’s pathetic how easily they had let themselves be tricked, pulled away by hope and a belief in their own invulnerability. On overinflated egos that the ghouls had played upon. Peter doesn’t think about that now, too focused on the hunt, but it’s something that sits in the human part of his brain, waiting to be taken out and examined and turned over and over again in the days to come.

Another hundred yards and Scott’s scent veers off to the left, while Stiles’ and Isaac’s veer away to the right. He doesn’t know why and he barely gives it a notice, because they don’t matter. Only Chris and Peter are important because only they can save Chris. And _that_ is the only thing that matters. (Somewhere in the back of his head he knows it’s to save Allison, too, because one day that will matter to Chris, even if it’s a Chris that will never exist, but as that’s only tangential to him, it only just registers in passing.)

The trees are growing thinner and the scents are growing stronger and he knows an opening is just on the horizon. He redoubles his speed, pushing faster than he’s ever pushed before, feeling branches whip across his skin in bright flashes of pain that heal almost as soon as they come. He bursts through the opening, sees he and Chris’ older selves standing strangely still and silent, sees them spring to life when he appears, yelling and waving their arms. Hears Chris yell, “Stop! Peter slow down or you’re going to—”

He slams headlong into some invisible barrier, and his momentum flings him violently back. He crashes into a tree, his head striking a branch with enough force that for a long moment after he hits the ground the world spins and buzzes, refusing to resolve itself into a proper shape.

“Peter. _Peter_. Peter, can you hear me?” The low rumble that Chris’ voice matures to breaks its way through his disorientation, as does the lighter, smoother tone of his own.

“He’s probably managed to break his neck. Where’s your theory now, Christopher?”

Peter pushes up to a sitting position, shaking his head to clear it as the pain slowly fades. Chris is crouched down beside him, while his older half hangs back where he’d been when Peter had first found them. Chris looks far more concerned than his future self, who mainly looks annoyed. Which is pretty close to how Peter feels himself.

Chris holds out a hand. “Are you alright?”

Peter ignores the help and scrambles to his feet. “I’m _fine_. He walks forward several cautious steps, his hand held out in front of him as a guard. “What the hell was that?”

“Why the hell are you here?” His older self asks at the same time.

“No one was answering their phones. We came to help.”

“Yes, well, you’re certainly doing a bang up job. Managed to knock your own self out. Stellar effort.”

And really, it’s ridiculous to be arguing with _himself_ , but he’s been doing it for days, so the habit’s already set. “You don’t look like you’re doing any better! What _is_ this?” He’s reached the point he’s almost face to face with Peter, and his hand butts up against the same invisible, impenitrible barrier that had rebuffed him before.

Chris comes up beside him. Which is the first time it clicks that whatever is there, it isn’t stopping _him_. Mountain ash, then.

“We were under attack. I didn’t realize soon enough they weren’t actually attacking. They were driving us. Herding us, really. We thought we’d gotten away when we stopped hearing them. But as soon as we stepped into the clearing something happened, and we couldn’t get out.”

Only Peter couldn’t get out, which was a pretty important distinction as far as he was concerned. Almost as important as the fact Chris didn’t seem to be making it.

“Where are they then? If they trapped you, why aren’t they here?” 

“We don’t know. They haven’t come.” Chris voice is calm and even, while Peter’s other half is slowly pacing the edge of his confines. “Why don’t you tell us where Allison and the kid are?”

“If they’re not here then why the hell aren’t you letting him out? Break the circle so we can go! Allison and Chris are stuck in our cave because apparently whatever kind of sicko things these are rigged that up, too! I need your help to get them out. Break the stupid circle!”

“My _God_ I was an idiot!” Adult Peter exclaims, throwing his hands up in the air before making a sweeping motion at the ground. “Take a good look, child. Do you _see_ any mountain ash there? Do you see anything for him to break? What? Do you think we’ve been sitting here just twiddling our thumbs for a _good time_?”

“What he’s trying to say,” Chris said mildly, “is that we’ve tried. It’s not mountain ash keeping him in. We don’t know what it is. There’s nothing to break. There’s no reason he was able to get in but can’t get out.”

“I said exactly what I was trying to say,” comes the muttered answer.

“Okay, okay, fine! So you can’t get him out. But _you_ can leave! Give him a gun or something and _come on_! He’ll be fine until we get back! We need to get Chris! And Allison,” he adds as an afterthought.

Chris shakes his head and runs a hand through his hair, a frown pulling down the corners of his mouth. Peter almost gets distracted by the fact that Chris, even though he’s _old_ , is still so stupidly attractive. Peter feels a bit like he’s hit the jackpot. But then Chris shakes his head again.

“If I leave him he’s a sitting duck. He’s trapped. He can’t run. We have no idea how many of them there are or when they’re coming or what kind of weapons they have. I’d be leaving him to die.”

“And you know, I’m sure in the future I’ll super appreciate this! But right now you might be leaving you to die! Not to mention your _daughter_!” Best lean hard on that one. Chris would probably let himself die, because Chris has always been stupid like that, but he seems pretty attached to his kid.

His future self isn’t saying anything. He’s just standing there, arms crossed and eyebrows drawn together as he watches the two of them, and honestly Peter is surprised he isn’t doing his best to undermine him or convince Chris to stay or at _least_ interjecting something cutting and harsh. From all he knows of himself in this time, self preservation is pretty much the number one thing on his list, and he seems to have been perfectly willing to kill any number of people to achieve that goal. But he’s just watching, and the only thing betraying any real emotion is the occasional twitch in his right eye.

Chris hesitates, licking his lips and he stares down at the forest floor. “They’re at the cave?”

“Yes. Yes. The entrance caved in and they’re trapped and the whole thing could cave in at _any time_. So let’s _go_.”

“If they’re at the cave,” Chris says slowly, his voice firming up as he goes, “then he’ll know to take her to the back. It’s safe back there. You remember. They’ll be fine for now.”

“ _What_? No! You have got to be—” His dismay gets cut off by the far off sound of tromping feet. Too much distance for Chris to hear, but his older self cocks his head and says urgently—

“Christopher, they’re coming. If you’re going to go, now would be the time.”

Chris grabs Peter by the shoulders and speaks intently. “I can't go without Peter. You have to go. You have to go and get help. Stiles and Isaac went to go find Scott. That way.” He points east, away from the approaching sounds. “We’ll hold them off as long as we can. Find Isaac and Stiles and Scott. You can’t be here when these guys come. You have to know that.”

“No!” Peter shakes his head adamantly. “ _No_.”

“Peter.” Chris’ voice is urgent and he tightens his grip on Peter’s shoulders. “You’re the only person who can help us. You’re the only person that can help _them_. We’re all depending on _you_. We live or die by _you,_. All of us need you. _He_ is depending on _you_. So go and save us all.”

His eyes burn with an intensity that is both just like Peter’s Chris and at the same time completely foreign, but he still has the same capacity to center Peter in the midst of a storm. Peter looks over Chris’ shoulder at his older self, who is watching the exchange with absolutely no expression, and then he turns back to Chris and gives a short, sharp nod.

“Good. Now go.” He turns Peter around and shoves him back toward the tree line. “ _Run_.”

Peter launches himself into the forest, the smell of Stiles and Isaac heavy in his nose.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

As soon as the kid disappears into the trees, Chris steps back over the invisible line and pulls the gun from his thigh holster.

“Take this.”

Peter grimaces and looks disdainfully at the firearm before shaking his head.

“Peter,” Chris says, as patiently as possible with death bearing down on them. “Do you think, now that they have you trapped, that they’re going to ever get within arms length of you? Give you even a chance to fight tooth and claw? We don’t even know what’s on those darts - they could hit you and you’d be out before you even _had_ a chance to fight. You would be helpless. Take it. I need you to be able to help me here.”

Peter’s grimace deepens but he takes the weapon, leaving Chris free to pull the gun from his shoulder holster and the taser from his back pocket to arm himself.

“So,” Peter says casually, his ear ever cocked to the side to keep tabs on the approaching ghouls. “They’re at the cave. Probably braiding each other’s hair and telling secrets. They could come out of this bosom buddies, Christopher. They do have quite a bit in common.”

A laugh barks out of Chris and he shakes his head. “She’s far more like Vickie, and you know it.”

“Not where it counts. Or she would have killed him the second we turned our back. Ends do justify the means you know. I suppose I’m lucky she inherited your stupidity.”

The smile slides off Chris’ face and now the ghouls are so close that even his unaided human ears can hear them breaking through the brush and foliage. They’re not even trying to be quiet, which means they’re far more confident than he’d suspected. He waits, arms loose and ready at his sides, as Peter shakes his head.

“You really should have left when you had the chance. _I_ would have.”

Chris presses his lips together in a thin smile. “I’m sure you would have. I suppose you’re lucky twice that I’m not you.”

With that the wait is over and the first ghoul appears through the tree line.

* * * * * * * * * * * *

Allison rolls her head back against the wall and huffs irritably at the ceiling. “This is boring.”

Chris shrugs and picks at the bandage over his burn, trying not to focus on ache. “Better than being in Jacobson’s class. ‘Mr. Armbruster!’” Chris’ voice turns cartoonish, “‘Stop daydreaming. Mr. Armbruster! Pay attention! Mr. Armbruster, stop staring at your boyfriend. Do you think we’re running a brothel here?’ Maybe I’d pay more attention if he wasn’t such an _asshole_.”

Allison snickers, grabbing her bag and rummaging through it for God knows what. “I still can’t believe my dad made that your name.”

“What?” She pulls what looks like a pair of flash bombs out and rolls one over to him. He tucks it into his pocket and nods his thanks.

“Armbruster. I can’t believe he chose that.”

“He didn’t.”

Now it’s her turn to look confused. “What do you mean?”

“I picked it. He just told me to choose something I wouldn’t forget. We work with some Armbrusters on a lot of hunts. They’ve got a kid my age. Easiest thing.”

“Oh.” She clears her throat and becomes very intent in looking into her bag. It takes him a couple of seconds to realize she’s purposely avoiding looking at him.

“Why’d you say that?” he asks suspiciously.

“Say what?” she dodges, which just confirms his observation.

“That your dad was the one who picked it.”

She shrugs and shakes her head and keeps rummaging around. “No reason.”

He stares at her with narrowed eyes for a long minute before it finally clicks. “Oh my _God_ ,” he exclaims, voice sounding louder in the small space than it should. “Is Vickie your mother? Do I marry _Vickie_?”

Allison’s head shoots up and meets his gaze. She stays silent, jaw clenched, but that’s an answer in and of itself.

“Oh my God, I _do_. Oh my God,” he repeats again. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

“Hey!” Allison’s eyes snap fire. “There’s nothing wrong with my mom! You were probably lucky she even looked at you!”

“No, no no!” He hastens to correct her assumption, aware it’s shaky ground to go around insulting people’s parents. “She’s fine. There isn’t anything wrong with her! I just…yeah, I can’t even picture it. It’s so _weird_!” He pulls his knees to his chest and wraps his arms around them and shakes his head in bemusement. “Weird,” he says again.

“Yeah, well, there was a time you couldn’t picture wanting to screw Peter, either,” she shoots back. “So maybe you should slow your roll.”

“Slow my what?”

“Oh my God.” She rolls her eyes. “Never mind.”

He rests his head against the wall and shakes it again. “She’s one of the few people Peter actually _likes_.” Knowing what he knows now, Chris figures it’s probably because he’s never been particularly interested in getting in Vickie’s pants, and she’s definitely never been interested in getting in _his_. He’s pretty sure the only thing Vickie has ever done is tolerate him.

“Peter knew my _mom_?” Allison’s eyebrows are halfway to her hairline as she asks, her eyes wide and unblinking.

“Yeah. I mean some. She stayed with us for like a week once when our parents went on a hunt. We all went to the movies and swam and stuff. They liked to judge people together.” 

“Now see that?” Allison jabs a finger at him. “ _That’s_ what’s weird.”

“I guess,” he says. “I mean it’s not like she knew he was a werewolf and he knew we were hunters. That was before.”

He lapses into silence, still trying to grasp the idea. It’s not that Vickie isn’t hot. She totally is, in a Sigourney Weaver in _Aliens_ kind of way. Chris isn’t sure exactly why he’d never tried to date her before Peter. Except they kill things together, and she can kick his ass seven ways from Sunday, and she’s focused on hunting in a way to which Chris can only aspire. Frankly, he’s not sure dating is even on her radar, even though her parents are way nicer than Gerard and would definitely let her. 

Nope, he can’t even picture it. Then again, he can’t even picture a life without Peter, so that might be the bigger obstacle in the exercise.

He pulls back the bandage on his arm and makes a face at the oozing, half scabbed burn. Gross. He plasters it back down and squints at Allison. “Do I love her?” he asks quietly.

She’s silent for a minute, but not like she’s shutting him down, more like she’s considering something. “Yeah,” she nods, voice sure and peaceful. “You did. Dad hasn’t been the same since she died.” She presses her lips together and looks down. “Sometimes I think he’s hoping something we hunt will kill him. Like he won’t do it himself because there’s me, but he wishes someone else would.”

“Well that’s dumb,” he spits out. “I bet Vickie’d kick the shit out of him for that. I mean, if she were around.” And _that’s_ a new sock in the gut. Vickie is _dead_ in this future. Just like Katie is dead. Just like Laura and Talia and Claudia are dead.

He frowns at the splint on his ankle. “What happens to her?”

She blows out a breath of air. “You know I can’t tell you that.”

“Oh my God, what is _wrong_ with you? What’s wrong with all of you? If you’d just tell us what happened, we could _fix it_. Peter’s family wouldn’t die, Kate wouldn’t die, your _mom_ would still be alive!”

“Except she wouldn’t be my _mom_ , would she? Because you would change things, wouldn’t you? I mean that’s the plan, right? Change it so you and Peter stay together? Change it so I wouldn’t even be _alive_. You know what, I _like_ being alive! God, I’m not _stupid_. What’s wrong with _you_?” She picks up a handful of dirt and lobs it angrily at him, almost catching him in the face before he can block it.

“Hey, there were _rocks_ in there! And you seriously wouldn’t sacrifice yourself so that all those other people could live? One life for a dozen more? Kind of selfish, don’t you think?”

“This isn’t Star Trek, you idiot! But I could ask you the same thing. You’re not willing to sacrifice your stupid relationship so all the rest of us could live?”

“ _No_!” He yells the word without thinking, from pure gut reaction, and she nods and smirks, self satisfied.

“Exactly. So you can get right of that high horse.”

He glares at her and goes back to fruitlessly trying to get a signal on his cell phone. And after another minute, she does the same.

“Waiting sucks,” he mutters.

“Yep,” she replies, the ‘p’ popping loud from her lips as she does.  
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *


	18. Chapter 18

She keeps trying to find a way out. Keeps looking at the ceiling and the walls like somehow she’ll see a crack they’ve missed, or a rock they can push that causes a door to swing open in the dusty back of the cave. Like they’re Mystery fucking Inc. or some such bullshit. Which just makes her think of Peter calling them that over their failure to realize he and her father had known each other, which is a place she really does _not_ want to go. She grimaces and frowns and kicks moodily at a rock by the rubber sole of her boot, sending it bouncing and skittering along the floor.

She’s angry at herself for not seeing the trap, not predicting it. Angry she was so focused on finding her father that she developed tunnel vision, got careless and stopped paying attention. This never would have happened to her father.

Except, of course, it had.

She glances across the cave to him, to Chris, to the boy that inexplicably will provide one half of her DNA, who already knows her mother but doesn’t love her, who is determined and skilled, but not nearly as determined and skilled as he one day will be. He picks up the pebble she sent flying and contemplatively rolls it around in his palm. Then he closes his fist around it and lets his hand fall to his lap. 

He squints sea green eyes at her and asks, head tilted slightly to the side, “Am I a good dad?” His voice is unusually vulnerable, low and soft and tentative.

She knows it’s something that worries him; he’s asked questions that dance around the issue before, from his _Would he? Kill you? Kick your ass, or whatever_ before she truly understood about Gerard, to sideways, casual queries about what her dad does and doesn’t let her get away with. She gets it, she really does. She knows it’s something Isaac stresses about, too, if he’ll grow up to be just like his dad. She’s almost sure Isaac doesn’t plan on having kids at all, because he’s too terrified to risk it.

So she takes time to consider his question seriously, doesn’t just shoot out an offhanded, easy yes. But in the end the answer is easy enough.

“Yeah. You are. I mean, you screw up some. Sometimes a lot. So did mom.” Trying to murder her boyfriend ranks pretty high on her screw up list, even though she understands now that her mother had been terrified beneath all the rage. “But you keep trying to do better, and you never give up.

“When Gerard came—” She clears her throat and looks up at the ceiling. “When Gerard came— You saved me. I was so— I was so _lost_. So _angry_. Gerard offered me power and I thought it was strength and I almost—

She stops and takes a deep breath before lowering her head to meet his gaze. “I would have been just like Kate. And you made friends with your enemies to save me. You always save me. By making me stronger.” She grins crookedly, then considers. “Although I guess they weren’t your enemies as much as I thought.” The things her father has said and done over the last couple of years actually make a heck of a lot more sense now that she knows this piece of his past.

Chris is looking at her intently, his eyebrows drawn so close together they’re almost touching. But she’s not prepared enough to dissemble when he says, “Did he— Did I kill my dad? Is that what happened to him?”

“ _What_?” The words tumble out before she can filter them, before she can remind herself that if her father hadn’t told him, then it’s probably information he doesn’t want her to share. “My dad didn’t kill Gerard!”

“Who did it then? Did Peter? It wasn’t Scott, I know that. He’s not the type—”

“Hey! Scott could definitely kill someone if he needed to!” Even though she’s pretty sure he couldn’t, but Chris makes it sound so _insulting_.

“—Was it Derek?” Chris cuts off with a quick intake of air and his eyes widen. “It was Vickie, wasn’t it?”

Of course there’s no way he could know her mother had been dead for days by that point.

“No. _No_! Just stop! Nobody killed him. Nobody killed him, okay? He’s not _dead_.”

Chris is so still she’s not sure he’s breathing. “No. He’s dead. He has to be dead. You’re wrong. He wouldn’t let this happen.”

She has no clue what _this_ is. “He lives at my _house_. Pretty sure I’m not wrong.”

She’s never seen Chris look terrified. She’s seen him angry, she’s seen him combative, she’s seen him sarcastic - all things, she’s learned from Isaac, that can _mean_ the same thing as scared - but never terrified. Until now. His breath is coming short and shallow and he’s swallowing compulsively and there’s no color left in his face. His hands are curled to claws beside him, nails digging into the dirt so hard that as she watches one of them breaks at the quick and starts to bleed.

She immediately scoots toward him, one hand stretched out as if he’s a startled animal that might bolt at any minute. “Hey…hey, it’s okay. He can’t even walk anymore. He can’t hurt anybody. I know…my dad told me what he did to you. Okay? I get it. But he’s stuck in a chair. He can’t get out and he can’t hurt _anyone_.”

He shakes his head. “You’re so stupid. All of you are so _fucking_ stupid. You think that’s gonna stop him?” He laughs, wild and high. “How could I be that stupid? He’s not gonna let this stand.”

She makes quiet shushing noises, but he just shakes his head again. “You think you can protect them from him? You can’t. You love Scott?” He snaps his fingers, sharp and loud and startling. “Dead. Care about Isaac?” He snaps his fingers again. “Dead. Ethan? Aiden? Derek?” He snaps three times in quick succession. “Dead, dead, dead. You gave _vargulfs_ haven!” She doesn’t know the word but she can guess at its meaning. 

“You think him being in a wheelchair’s gonna stop him from doing his job? You have no idea. Hunting is like his _religion_. You’re breaking the _Code_.” He rests his head against the wall. “ _Peter_ ,” he groans.

“No. No we’re not. We made a new one. Dad and I. And no one is getting hurt by him. _No one_. I swear.”

All at once his face closes down, goes expressionless and blank in the same way she’s seen Isaac’s face go a hundred different times since they became friends. And the more she finds out, the more her father’s willingness to let Isaac into their lives begins to make perfect sense.

She’s reached him now, and she settles in beside him, their shoulders just touching.

“Does he know I’m here?” His voice is just as even and calm as his expression, as if the last five minutes never happened, as if he’d never shown any vulnerability at all.

“No. Of course not. I told you, you don’t have to worry about him.”

“Huh.” His voice is distant and distracted as he peers around the cave again, and it makes her wonder if that was what was behind his question at all. She changes the subject, tries to engage him in varying topics as they continue to wait out the time, but while he answers her and sometimes asks questions in return, it never sounds more than rote. She gets the feeling he isn’t with her at all, that his mind is at work somewhere a thousand miles away.

* * * * * * * * * * * * *

The first face discernible in the moonlight is MacArthur’s, although he’s quickly joined by more than a dozen others, all ringing the circle he and Peter are currently trapped in.

“Mac, what are you—” Then the reality hits him. “Not Mac.”

The ghoul wearing Mac’s face shakes his head. “No, but let me tell you, his memories of you were _delicious_.” 

Peter’s shoulders tense against him, but Chris is too focused on keeping them alive to take the time to wonder why. Everyone is armed, either with guns or shock sticks - they’re clearly prepared for both human and were foe. He’ll fight to the last, but it’s going to be a massacre, and probably a short one at that. He’s good, and Peter’s good, but two against fifteen has never been close to an even match. The only plus in their column is that none of them seem over armed, mainly seem limited to a weapon apiece. But it’s cold comfort in the face of the odds.

“It wasn’t Mac this morning, was it?”

The ghoul smiles briefly. “It hasn’t been Mac in quite some time. If it makes you feel better, he admired what you were trying to do here, even if he didn’t understand it.”

“Christ,” Peter murmurs, quiet enough for Chris’ ears alone. “What is it with monologuing villains? Just shoot us already so we don’t have to listen to _that_.”

He suppresses a smile. Trust Peter to be completely inappropriate for the gravity of the situation. “Let’s not hurry our deaths along quite that fast, alright? The kids might actually show up.”

Peter huffs. “That song and dance was for him. I think we both know we’re screwed.”

Chris ignores him, even though it’s true, and addresses the Mac again. “So, what? You’re taking out hunter families? How long do you think you’ll actually get away with that?”

A long time, actually.” Mac brushes an imaginary piece of dirt off his sleeve. “We’ve already been at it for longer than you’d imagine.”

Chris wracks his brain for the names of hunter families that have gone missing, that he’s lost contact with, but he’s been out of the loop for so long that there’s no way he can pinpoint specific groups Mac might be referring to.

“What exactly are you hoping to accomplish?” Keep him talking. It’s surprising how often that little trick works, despite every movie out there pointing out the folly. Ego is so much bigger than common sense in most cases; if it weren’t such a delicate situation - not to mention gut wrenching memory - he might point out to Peter that _he_ had succumbed to exactly the same stupidity the night Kate had died. But Peter always had been a drama queen.

“You’ve hunted us for centuries.” The other ghouls in the circle murmur angrily and hitch their weapons higher. “Without pity or cause.”

“Well,” Peter pipes up, “you’ve certainly given them cause now.” He ends on a soft grunt, probably because Chris has buried his elbow in his ribs.

“We bothered no one. We never took the living. Because we only wanted to _live_. But you filthy hunters never cared about that distinction, did you? And don’t bother saying you’re any different, Argent, just because you let this little werewolf enclave survive. You’ve been just as quick on the trigger with everything else, haven’t you.”

There are certain arguments Chris could give to that, but really, there’s no point. The ghouls want to kill him and so they will. Reasons are secondary. His hand flexes against the cool steel of his gun as he tracks the glints off the ghouls’ equipment, follows their movements and shifts. He’s almost with Peter at this point; let them come if only to end the tedious waiting, the empty space between action. Adulthood has granted him a wealth of patience - if he had to, he could sit like this for hours - but at his core a rash, impatient child still champs at the bit.

Inattention will get them killed as quick as anything, so he stifles the introspection as soon as he recognizes it and refocuses on Mac’s self righteous monologue.

“I woke up, after hearing about the death of yet another of my kin, and the thought hit me of _why_? Why are we living in the shadows? Scrabbling for our next meal, hiding in dirt and refuse just for the hope of one more day? If the hunters hunt us, then we must become hunters. Run you to the ground just as you have run us. Learn your tricks. Your strategies. Your weapons.

“Such as this one.” He holds up something in the moonlight, and it takes a minute for Chris’ eyes to pick out the shape of a small black box in the palm of his hand. He shifts their position, keeping he and Peter back to back but moving enough so that Peter can see Mac as well.

“Mac invented it. Specifically for werewolves. It’s quite clever, actually.” The longer he talks, the more Chris picks up traces of something distinctly not American about him. Certain words, certain phrases, the twist of a vowel here and there. Mac’s family had been based out of Montana for generations, which means it’s the ghoul bleeding through its packaging. Either this ghoul group had traveled a very long way to kill him, or its leader was older than Chris wanted to think about.

“Mountain ash is so easily detectable, even in the dark. Unless you’ve already got the werewolf where you want them, it’s almost impossible to lure them.” Peter sucks in a quick breath and Chris wonders if he’s thinking of his family, trapped inside a burning house by a thick ring of mountain ash. He rocks on the balls of his feet, resting his shoulders more squarely against Peter’s.

“But this… _this_.” Mac taps the box with one slim finger, a self amused quirk on his lips. “You hunters do love your modern technology. I mean I can see why. It really evens things up, doesn’t it? Bury a few metal rods in the ground. Innocuous, unseen, useless. Until you flip one little switch, and suddenly they’re broadcasting the electro-magnetic signature of mountain ash. Pinning werewolves in just the same. Easy on, easy off.”

He seems to straighten. Stand taller. “Peter Hale,” he says, in a tone that conveys a certain kind of formality. “Our fight is not with you. Not with any of our cousins, so long as they don’t try to impede us. I will turn this off—” he taps again what Chris can now see is a small switch on the side of the box, “—and you can go. Take you and yours and leave the hunter and his spawn to us. I know what his family has done to yours; we will make sure that debt is paid.”

“ _Ah_ ,” Peter breathes, and if Chris could afford to take his eyes off the ghouls surrounding them he’d want to see his face. “You’re right. It is a tempting offer. And I have a certain attachment to staying alive. 

Then Peter sighs, a sound that somehow manages to convey equal parts aggravation and resignation. “A very, very large attachment to staying alive.” And Chris is both completely surprised and somehow not surprised at all when Peter says, “But I’m afraid I’m going to have to decline. You’ve trespassed into Hale territory without being invited, and that really, _really_ pisses me off.”

“Peter,” Chris murmurs under his breath, chancing a look over his shoulder, “you’re committing suicide.”

Peter rolls his eyes. “Don’t start doubting your skills now, Argent.”

Mac is watching them with narrowed eyes, and Chris can see grips tightening on weapons all around them. “You should take the offer.”

“Please, Christopher. If they kill you, the hunters will just send reinforcements. I prefer the devil I know. Besides, they didn’t ask first, and that’s just poor manners.”

A grin tugs at the corners of Chris’ mouth, but he doesn’t get the chance to argue further, or even ask what Peter’s answer would have been if they _had_ asked first, because Mac clearly gets tired of the game and shrugs.

“Alright then. You can die together.”

“ _Now_ ,” is the only thing Chris has time to yell, bringing his gun up to fire as the ghouls rush the circle as one, and he can only hope that Peter does the same.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * 

Fighting is so much less organized than it looks in the movies. More chaotic. _Dirtier_. Peter has a mouthful of dust and dirt barely thirty seconds in, and if that isn’t disgusting, he’s not sure what is. A bullet goes whistling by his ear, followed by a raw _crack_ as it finds home in a tree trunk. There’s a grunt, and a thud, and Peter knows that, behind him, Chris has taken a ghoul down.

He ducks to avoid a shock stick aimed at his midsection, then feels absolutely no remorse about jamming Chris’ gun in a painted ghoul’s stomach and pulling the trigger. The wet blow back that spatters across his face is negligible in the long run. It won’t be the first or the last time he’s been covered in blood. If they survive this.

That chance is looking slimmer and slimmer, Peter has to admit, and just for once he would like to have a month or two where his life _isn’t_ constantly on the line because of something the Argents have done. Which could, of course, beg the question as to why he doesn’t just pull up stakes and leave. Or why he doesn’t let Dudley Do-Right and his Scooby Gang deal with their own messes. Just because Argent likes to swoop in and save the day doesn’t mean Peter has any real inclination.

It _could_ beg the question, but Peter’s not in the habit of revealing information, so he wouldn’t answer anyway.

“Peter, _down_.” Peter drops without thought and Chris’ arm swings over him, jamming a taser into the neck of a ghoul with a long scar riding up its cheek. It stiffens and seizes and the shock stick in its hand falls to the ground with a small thud. It hasn’t escaped Peter’s notice that Chris has been very careful not to let anyone with a shock stick get to close to him.

Which is only good strategy. If Peter goes down, Argent is fucked for sure. 

He sweeps the weapon up with one hand and keeps the gun aimed with the other, and he and Argent turn in tandem in a slow circle, the ghouls now falling back a wary arm’s length. He supposes they were stupid enough to think it would be easy because there were so many of them, that they could just rush them and be done with it. But just because they’ve taken hunters’ forms and memories doesn’t mean they’ve actually taken their skills. And they’d obviously severely underestimated Argent’s abilities and Peter’s desire to stay alive. That desire had dragged him through the hell of six years trapped in his mind and parricide and death and waking up buried beneath the floorboards of the burnt out shell of his home.

He’s never asked, and Derek has never told, but he knows in the way he still annoyingly just _knows_ things about Argent that he had been the one to painstakingly help Derek bury him. And one of these days he may decide to thank him for not vivisecting him as he should have, as that would have ruined his back up plan entirely.

Not that Argent’s skill and Peter’s survival instinct will make much difference in the long run. They’re still outnumbered ten to two, and now that the ghouls understand exactly what they’re facing they won’t make the mistake of getting close again. Chris grunts behind him and Peter assumes it’s because he’s seeing the same thing Peter is seeing: ghouls switching firearms for dart guns. And Chris was right before; you can’t keep yourself alive if you’re too unconscious to fight back.

“You have to at least appreciate the irony, Christopher,” Peter says, a humor he does not really feel lacing through his voice. “All these years, and we’re going to get to die together after all.”

He feels far calmer about his impending death than he should, than he _wants_ , and even though he’s almost certain he’s worked out _why_ , that doesn’t mean it doesn’t infuriate him to no end. Just like it infuriates him that Chris is sitting around waiting to die, when he could probably still get out of this mess if he would just leave Peter and make a run for it. It’s idiotic and the man has no self preservation and apparently neither does _Peter_.

It’s enough to make a growl rumble out of his throat, which in turn causes a redheaded female to release the first dart. He dodges it through sheer supernatural reflex, pulling Chris out of its path with him as he does.

Chris grits out low and steady, “Just keep your gun up and firing as long as you can.”

And then the wind changes, carrying with it a new combination of scents. Peter cocks his head to the side, a smirk twisting across his lips. “Christopher…”

He doesn’t get a chance to finish before Stiles comes bursting through the tree line, screaming at the top of his lungs and swinging a baseball bat as he goes. His first swing clocks a mustachioed ghoul right across the head, blood spattering beautifully as the force of it whirls him about before he drops to the ground.

Then Isaac comes tumbling in after him, eyes glowing yellow, with Ethan, Aiden, and Peter’s idiotic younger self scattering in on his heels. Stiles is moving like a whirling dervish through the circle, swinging and ducking as he goes, but the werewolves have obviously been warned about the trap, and there’s not much more they can do than shift about its borders, growling and hissing and looking for some weakness to exploit.

It’s all chaos for a brief moment, as Peter and Chris break apart for the first time to try to take advantage of the confusion Stiles’ violent entrance has brought, and then Chris is yelling over the cacophony of shouts and screams. 

“Stiles! The box! Get _the box_.” He must have pointed, too, because Stiles immediately sprints toward Mac, who’s closer to Stiles than anyone else. Then it all goes to slow motion suddenly, as Mac raises his gun, but instead of aiming at Stiles he’s aiming at Chris, and Peter knows that look, that decision that death is acceptable as long as you get your vengeance as you go.

He lunges at Chris at the same time Mac pulls the trigger, at the same time Stiles reaches him and brings the baseball bat down across his back. He tackles Chris sideways and the air goes red with heat and pain as the bullet grazes across his shoulder and Chris stumbles back several feet from the force of the blow.

Peter hits the ground and is rolling to his feet, shallow groove already healing and Chris’ irritated _Jesus Fuck, Hale, the bullet probably would have hurt less_ letting him know he’s managed to literally dodge the bullet this time. Which is good, because Peter has absolutely no fucking time to worry about him, what with approximately a bazillion bolts of electricity suddenly surging through him from the shock stick an opportunistic ghoul has just shoved into his side.

Peter arches so sharp he hears as much as feels something in his back snap (a rib, probably a rib, he absently thinks, because he can still fucking _feel_ every lancet of pain), then seizes and shakes helplessly as the ghoul grins and jabs him again. And really, this is absolutely an example of no good dead going unpunished, because the ghoul drops the shock stick and aims his gun between Peter’s eyes.

Through the buzzing in his ears he hears Chris shout “ _Peter_!” and it sounds weirdly panicked, but Chris is only human and there’s no way he can outrun this bullet. But Peter appreciates the thought all the same. And then Isaac pops up over the ghoul’s shoulder - Stiles must have succeeded in shutting down the box - wraps his arms around its neck and gives a sharp twist.

The only time Peter has appreciated the sound of death more was when he ripped Kate’s murdering throat out; there’s nothing that can top the satisfaction that particular wet, tearing sound had brought, but this runs a close second. And thank God it was Isaac rather than Scott, because Scott would have spent thirty minutes just trying to square his conscience before acting.

He finally stops shaking and Isaac grabs his hand and pulls him to his feet. Behind him he catches sight of his younger self, watching the scene play out with an unattractively gaping mouth and an unreadable expression.

“Watch _out_ , you fool!” Peter bellows. But then, somehow, the red-haired ghoul sneaking up on his junior half - who is idiotically not paying attention and therefore completely deserving of having his head taken off - _trips_ on perfectly smooth ground and falls face first onto a _rock_. Blood immediately begins pooling on the ground beneath. It’s in that moment that Peter comes to the conclusion that Chris’ theory is absolutely true.

His younger half starts and whirls around and seems to finally remember he’s in the middle of a fight. Peter is pleased to see he doesn’t hesitate to make a killing blow. If that had happened, Peter might have to kill himself out of sheer embarrassment.

It’s over quickly after that, and then they’re heaving in deep breathes, the only ones standing in a clearing with fifteen dead bodies littering the ground at their feet. While the werewolves’ wounds are already healing, and Stiles looks little the worse for wear, when Peter gets his first good look at Chris he barely manages to keep the hiss from escaping through his teeth.

He has a bruise across his cheek and his lip is busted and bleeding and the way he’s holding his arms curled protectively into his body says something not right there. He’d taken far more blows before the cavalry arrived than Peter had realized, but he still has as grim smile painted across his face as he approaches Peter’s past self and gives him a firm nod.

“Good work.” Peter’s grin is thin and sharp but his hands are clenched tight at his side and his throat bobs as he swallows convulsively. Chris puts a brief hand on his head and then expands his gaze to include all of the children. “All of you. Good work.” Aiden and Ethan nod stoically back, while Isaac just looks at the ground, face pale except for twin spots of color high on his cheekbones. Stiles is holding the bat lax at his side, hands and feet restless and jittery and his eyes landing everywhere but the bodies.

Peter weaves slowly between the ghouls, making his way to Chris’ side. This was a massacre he supposes, and other than Ethan and Aiden, none of these children have done much killing before tonight. And his teenage self, not at all. It’s sometimes hard to remember that at seventeen, the thought of murder had actually been repugnant to him. Except for Gerard, of course. Peter had had plenty of murderous thoughts about him.

Well, he’s sure Argent has some kind of hunter psychologist up his sleeve to which all these brats can angst their little hearts out. He sniffs and frowns at a tear in his sleeve and takes a moment to mourn the death of his designer shirt.

“Mr. Argent?” Stiles’ voice breaks the uneasy silence.

“Mmm?” Argent is looking at Isaac with a furrowed brow that seems to relax some when Stiles moves closer to him and slings an arm around the other boy’s shoulders.

“This is a lot of bodies. What do we do with the bodies?”

He sighs, like he hadn’t really wanted to get to this part with them. “They need to be burned. Not by any of you. That’s not for you. I’ll take care of it. After.” He rubs a hand over his face, and the wince it brings confirms for Peter the unseen injury. “What about Scott? Has anyone seen Scott?”

They all nod. “He’s with Danny and Lydia,” Stiles explains. “Rescuing the ghouls, uh, food source. They had a bunch of people locked up. I guess, um, in case they got hungry. Or needed a new, um, face. It was a cabin? Scott found it and then we found Scott. And then Pete found us. So yeah.”

Chris is fishing through various ghoul pockets as Stiles speaks, finally coming up with a flashlight that cuts a startling bright swath through the dark. Peter had almost forgotten it was night. Chris has a sour, resigned look on his face. Peter understands the feeling. Survivors mean non-hunters who now know. Survivors mean more mouths to keep shut. Survivors mean more stories to be created, more loose ends that can’t be tied up with just bullets and graves. Survivors complicate everything.

He feels another stab of irritation at the ghouls. Too incompetent to even clean up after themselves.

“You four,” Chris points to Ethan, Aiden, Isaac, and Stiles. “Get back to Scott. Tell him to take the survivors to his house and call Melissa to come home. Keep them there however you need to. _Don’t_ let them leave. I’ll get there as soon as I can.”

Peter’s younger self is almost vibrating with coiled energy, and he doesn’t have to guess where it’s aimed. Chris doesn’t either. He glances at Peter and then puts a hand on the shoulder of his past self. “Come on, kid. Let’s go get them.”

* * * * * * * * * * * *

The forest crunches loud beneath their feet as they trudge along behind Peter’s slim form. They’re not going fast enough for him, and every once in a while he races ahead, before returning to glare at them and bounce on his heels as they catch up.

It’s not that Chris doesn’t want to go faster. But he’s not as young as he used to be and unlike _some_ people, his body doesn’t spontaneously heal. During one of the kid’s impromptu running sessions, Peter looks at him with narrowed eyes.

“How many ribs?”

“What?”

“How many ribs do you think you’ve broken? Don’t—” Peter holds up a finger as Chris starts to protest. “You’re doing everything you can to keep from cradling your side and you’re shifting all of your weight to the left. Besides, I can _smell_ it on you. The pain.”

He’s too tired, too aggravated, and too irritated to deal with this. Not to mention worried about his _child_. “Must be a good night for you, then, huh?”

The world spins abruptly and Chris’ back slams against a tree. He yelps as pain shoots through his side and then grits his teeth, glaring at Peter, who in turn glares right back.

“Yes, Christopher, this has abso _lute_ ly been a wonderful evening. I always enjoy almost getting _killed_ because of you and your stupid band of children. I like getting shot at, and I love getting tasered by megalomaniac ghouls who’ve decided they can take over the world. I mean, really, it was almost like a vacation!”

“You _chose_ to come. And you could have walked away. Nobody was stopping you. Honestly, I’m surprised you didn’t. That’s what you do best, right? Run away?”

The blue in Peter’s eyes shifts to unnatural, but his voice is light and amused. “And you could have walked away just as easily. But you didn’t, and I didn’t, and we ended up killing everyone. So stop trying to change the subject. Show me.”

He bats Peter’s hands away. “I’m fine, Hale. Nothing that won’t heal. Just not as fast as you.”

Peter seems oddly undeterred. “I don’t believe you.”

“Christ. Fine.” He jerks his jacket off and yanks his shirt up, revealing the motley of bruises forming all the way up his left side. “See? Nothing. broken. Can we go now?”

Peter doesn’t answer at first. He glares intently at Chris’ side, like it’s the most offensive thing he’s ever seen. Without looking up he barks out, “Don’t move.” Before Chris can stop him, he reaches out and presses the palm of his hand flat across Chris’ abdomen.

Chris barely manages to keep from jerking away. Peter’s hand is smooth and hot and Chris focuses on the crown of his bowed head rather than that. For half a second, neither of them move, and then Peter stiffens and hisses and his fingers dig into Chris stomach before he forces them to relax.

Black lines race up Peter’s arm, and there’s a strange, tugging sensation along Chris’ side, like a plug has been pulled and the suction is draining the pain in his body away. Peter’s body is shaking and he’s gulping in quick, gasping breaths. 

“Peter.”

Peter shakes his head, and the lines in his arm darken and run higher, spider webbing out in a dozen different directions and the sudden absence of pain is so striking that it’s almost euphoric.

“Peter. Peter. _Petie_.” Chris locks his fingers around Peter’s wrist and yanks his hand away, holding it between them. Peter’s head jerks up, blood spatter all over his face and his eyes wide and his breath coming in short pants, as if he’s been running for miles. The black lines slowly retreat, disappearing entirely within seconds, and Chris nonsensically nods his head.

“It’s gone, Peter. It’s enough. The pain’s gone.” Peter hadn’t known how to do this as a teenager, and Chris has never seen him use it as an adult; he’d wrongly assumed it was a skill Peter had never learned. Peter’s breathing is still labored, and Chris can’t help but use his thumb to try to wipe some of tonight’s carnage from his face. "Thank you."

Peter slowly blinks, and then shivers, like he’s returning to himself from somewhere far away. He shakes off Chris’ loosened grip and straightens. “Now we can go.” 

Without another word he turns on his heels and follows the path his younger self had taken.

* * * * * * * * * * *

Five minutes more and they’ve reached the cave. Over twenty years since he’d found a need to be here, and other than the sealed mouth, it’s exactly as he remembers it. His eyes close briefly and a tiny smile flits across his face.

_“Then what the hell is wrong with you, Christopher? You said it didn’t matter! You said you didn’t care! Or was that a lie, too, you asshole?”_

_“It wasn’t a lie. It wasn’t. I care that it wasn’t_ me, _okay_?”

He shakes himself ruefully, and carefully approaches the cave in, young Peter having already beat him there by a mile.

“Chris?” he’s hissing, looking for all the world like he’s furious. “I swear to God if you’re dead I’m going to kick your ass!”

Chris rolls his eyes and puts a hand against the rock. Behind him, Peter lolls against a tree, arms and ankles crossed in apparent boredom. “Allison,” Chris calls.

He can hear scrambling through the rocks, then _“Dad?”_ and _“Petie?”_ , one almost on top of the other, comes through.

Peter almost collapses against the rock, his relief palpable. “I fucking hate you, Christopher.”

 _“No you don’t,”_ is muffled out teasingly.

Peter shakes his head against the rock, a small grin on his face. “No, I really don’t.”

Hearing them twists a little harder than usual in Chris’ stomach, or else the whole pain suck thing is wearing off, and Chris doesn’t look back to see what expression adult Peter might have.

“Is everyone okay in there?” He asks instead.

_“Fine.”_

_“He’s not fine! He twisted his ankle, Dad.”_

“Christopher!” Young Peter spits the name out like he’s accusing the kid of a crime.

“ _I’m_ fine! _Oh my God, seriously? You act like I’m bleeding out or something!”_

“Enough.” Chris cuts the argument off before it can even start, then steps back to examine the cave in critically. It’s not as bad as it looks; two or three boulders are the lynch pins. If they can manage to get those out without the whole thing falling down, they should be home free.

“Allison,” he instructs, “Take him and go back to the rear of the cave. All the way to the very back, up against the wall. Just in case. Do you understand me?”

He waits for her assent before turning to where Peter is still lounging about without a care in the world. “Are you just planning on watching? Or are you gonna get off your ass and help me?”

Peter pushes off the tree and strolls over, hands in pockets. “Oh no, I’m not helping you.”

“Are you fucking kiddi—”

“Because _you_ are hurt and therefore will not be moving anything. I will, however, help _him_.” He points to his younger copy. “But you can sit over there and tell us what to do to your little heart’s content.”

“I swear to God, Hale, I am going to skin you and hang your pelt up in my—”

“Tsk, tsk, Argent.” Peter swishes his finger back and forth. “Not in front of the children.” He waggles his eyebrows lecherously before dismissing Chris with a careless wave of his hand. “Now,” He looks over the sealed entrance, hands on hips. “Which of these are we moving first?”

It takes a good half hour before they’re done, each stone removed inch by agonizing inch as Chris directs them. Both Peters stay remarkably - blessedly - quiet during the whole thing, with only an occasional grunt to mark they were exerting any real effort at all, and at last, with a heavy shower of pebbles, an opening clears.

“Allison, Chris, out now.” He has no idea how stable the whole thing is, or if it will collapse at any moment. There’s a long, agonizing moment of waiting, wherein Chris has to grab young Peter by the shirttail to keep him from darting into the cave after them, and then they’re out, dirty and covered in dust, Chris with a splint and a slight limp and a crooked grin that’s for young Peter and young Peter alone.

He does his best to ignore both them and Peter, and wraps his arms around his daughter. “When I tell you to stay home, I mean _stay home_. Christ.” His throat closes up and he lets all the worry he’s been compartmentalizing bubble up, flood out, and finally wash away. “I can’t lose you too.”

She pulls back, face serious. “I know, Dad. But it’s what we do, remember? I made my arrowhead. Can’t take it back now.” Then she smirks. “Besides, I’m pretty sure we saved your ass, didn’t we?”

“Language,” he says with his own smile, despite his weariness and despite the endless night of work that stretches ahead. “And maybe,” he concedes.

Her smiles fades and she shoots a look over to his teenage self before clearing her throat and stepping back. This time her smile is a little chagrined and a lot guilty. “Sorry, Dad.”

Before he can ask exactly _what_ she’s sorry about, his younger self is in front of him, his hands clenching over and over into fists like he’s prepping for a fight. His jaw is tight and he stares at him for a half a dozen seconds before finally blurting out—

“I want to see him.”

Chris raises one eyebrow, completely lost. “See who?”

“My dad. I want you to take me to see my dad.”

* * * * * * * * * * * * *


	19. Chapter 19

When Peter makes his way downstairs the next morning, he once again finds Chris. Only this time he’s asleep, passed out on the table with file folders and loose papers and boxes spread out around him. His mouth is open and his forehead is creased. Even in sleep, he’s worrying. 

Peter picks up a folder, trying to ignore the smell of smoke and fire and the very, very faint odor of charred flesh that wafts around him. He isn’t particularly _proud_ of the way he’d ducked out when they’d finally tracked Derek down - walking up to his loft and smelling of the Blake woman - pronouncing airily that Derek could handle a match perfectly well and that _someone_ needed to make sure the Juniors didn’t trip over their own feet and kill themselves. But as much as Derek had sneered and judged him with those caterpillars he calls eyebrows, there was nothing else to be done. Because while Derek might objectively understand the horror of the fire, might sincerely mourn with those they lost, he had not been _in_ it. He had not heard the screams and pleas of his family. Had not smelled his _own flesh_ melting away as he struggled to escape. Struggled to get to his family and _save_ them. He hadn’t been set on fire _twice_. He can never truly understand. Even if Peter had wanted to help, he couldn’t have done it. His feet simply refused to move. 

Chris had had no particular expression on his face at all at Peter’s refusal, had just evenly thanked Peter for making sure everyone got home. But Peter could feel his eyes on his back as he had slipped away.

Peter makes the mistake of breathing through his nose and swallows bile as he gets a particularly strong whiff of smoke. He clenches his jaw so hard his teeth creak and forces himself to focus on the file in hand. It’s from the boxes they’d taken from the Sheriff’s station; despite the grueling night, Argent has immediately picked back up the thread of missing persons that might have been used in the blood sacrifice.

Peter sits down across from him and closes the file. While a paper trail may eventually take them somewhere, he thinks they have less diaphanous leads to follow. If he accepts Argent’s theory - and he does, as much as he would prefer not to - then they’ve learned far more about the perpetrator than the victims. So who, exactly, would have the power to steal their memories? He unconsciously bares his teeth at the thought for many, many reasons, not the least of which is that he’d been subjected to it more than once by Talia, and those holes, those empty, empty holes - like the spaces a tooth had once been that you can’t stop toying at with your tongue - take up more room in the back of his brain than he’ll ever admit.

Which is why he knows it can’t be a werewolf who’s responsible. It’s too neat. Too clean. When werewolves steal memories it’s violent. It’s ripping and tearing and carnage, leaving bleeding corpuscles and chunks of meat in its wake. It’s flashes of thought you can almost catch and emotions you can’t quite pin a meaning to. Ninety percent of the time the memories come back anyway, and even when they don’t, you feel the empty space. You _know_ something has been stolen.

And there is nothing, absolutely nothing, missing in his memories of Christopher Argent.

He sits motionless as the minutes tick by, playing and replaying their senior year. It’s an unbroken record, from the first day of classes, to dragging himself, step by faltering step to where he’s supposed to meet Chris to drive to the cabins. He remembers exactly the smell and taste of the air. He remembers sitting bolt upright in the darkness, cold sweat prickling his skin as he knows of surety he’s made a terrible mistake. He remembers running, running, running because he knows he can salvage this.

He remembers knowing with terrible certainty that he cannot.

There is nothing, absolutely nothing, missing in his memories of Christopher Argent.

He opens his eyes. Argent is still asleep, brow still wrinkled, soft, gusting air still escaping from parted lips. He notes the dark circles under his eyes with a small frown before turning his thoughts back inward.

So no werewolves. It could be a witch, he supposes, although he hasn’t heard of any witches within a hundred miles, at least none with the ability to pull off a spell like this. Not to mention the lack of motive. The emissaries might have the skill, but not the power. They span the genetic gap between humans and supers, and it’s only the rare throwback that manages to be anything more than a spark. Deaton and Marin’s greatest strength has always lain in the incredible knowledge they’ve hoarded. And most emissaries who somehow manage to unlock the secrets stored in their DNA don’t stay emissaries.

They go dark.

He taps a finger on the table as all paths once again converge on Jennifer Blake, Beacon County’s resident Darach. It’s a neat and tidy explanation, and while he’s been itching to peel her skin back for months, he’s never been more suspicious than when things are conveniently handed him, wrapped in a bow.

Across from him, Chris stirs. He winces in his sleep, then a small, barely vocal whimper slips out of his mouth. It’s no wonder; the position he’s in can’t be good for his ribs and whatever internal organs he’d managed bruise. Peter hesitates, then leans across the table and presses his hand just under Chris’ shoulder. Black lines immediately snake up his arm. Peter hisses and closes his eyes against the sensation.

Talia had taught him this, just like she’d taught him everything else in his early twenties, when she’d been treating him like a sick dog she was trying to lure from out of the brush by offering every scrap of meat she could find. And Peter had learned it, just like he’d learned everything, but it had never come naturally, never easily as it did to others of his species.

Talia had said it was because he fought it, couldn’t just let it happen. Had smiled ruefully and said Peter never could take the easy route. Peter had smiled back, wide and empty, and privately thought it had more to do with trying to force more pain into a vessel that was already overflowing.

Fortunately the fire had burned that right out of him, but it’s been years since he’s even thought of using that particular skill set. He’s far more interested in causing pain than curing it.

His fingers curl spasmodically into the heat of Chris’ skin and sweat beads on his forehead as his veins run pitch black. His jaw pops and grinds as he chokes down more and more until he’s suffocating. He’s drowning. He can’t fucking _breathe_. 

And then finally, blessedly, it starts to dissipate, spreading out through his spine and then evaporating altogether, all at once. He falls back with a sudden gasp, and when he opens his eyes it’s to find Chris awake, watching him with a careful, neutral expression. Peter ignores him, flexing the stiffness in his fingers with a small wince and then shuffling through the files in front of him until he’s cleared a space on the table.

Only then does he turn his attention to Argent, raising an eyebrow at the paper crease that runs along once cheek and then disappears into his beard. “Everything taken care of?”

Argent seems as willing as Peter to pretend the last few minutes didn’t exist. He yawns widely, exposing even, white teeth as he nods. “Yeah.”

“Survivors dealt with?”

Argent shoots him a look, as if Peter’s definition of ‘dealt with’ differs widely from his own. Which, well, it does, but he’s not expecting the rest of them to take the most expedient route.

“Yes. I drafted Stilinski into coming and flashing his badge. None of the kids shifted in front of them, and it’s a lot easier to give a cover story for a homicidal group of cannibals than werewolves. Everyone’s seen _Texas Chainsaw Massacre_.”

“The fact that Stilinski is seen as a trustworthy pillar of the community never ceases to amaze me. I can only imagine our current voting population didn’t grow up here. But what about the rest?”

Argent’s lips press into a thin smile before he answers. “Hallucinogens in their water. Melissa took that one. She used lots of big, medical words. Even I almost believed her by the time she was done.”

Of course Argent’s little parenting clique had managed it, Peter thinks sourly. “Does that ever actually work?” he says out loud, skepticism clear in his voice.

“More often than you’d think.” Argent yawns again and looks at the paperwork in front of him with a kind of determined reluctance. “People want to believe there’s a logical explanation for what they’ve experienced. Most people don’t want to take those nightmares home with them. They’ll grab onto the thinnest explanation, if only they don’t have to admit things really do go bump in the night. 

“The hard ones are people who’ve already seen things, or who legitimately _want_ the truth. God, Victoria and I dealt with a couple of FBI agents on a siren hunt a few years after we got married. Now _that_ was a nightmare. She and Victoria were the ones who actually killed the thing and her partner had already jumped on the siren connection. I don’t know that we ever really convinced them he was wrong so much as we destroyed all the evidence otherwise.”

“So somewhere there’s an FBI Agent running around believing in the supernatural,” Peter muses. “How quaint.”

“Probably more likely he’s dead, if he didn’t stop chasing after the idea. Anyway,” Argent shakes himself like he’s just took a long trip down memory lane and didn’t particularly like it. Peter can unwillingly sympathize. “I passed along the info about the ghouls to all the family heads I still have contact info for. Losing the MacArthurs is a huge blow for the community, but they feel like they were an isolated group, and I’m inclined to agree. But we’re taking steps regardless.”

“One would certainly hope.” He waits a half a beat and then says, with as much sincerity as he can muster (which isn’t much), “I’m sorry for your loss.”

Argent has already turned to scribbling something down on the notepad at his elbow, and he doesn’t stop, just grunts out a semi-confused, “What?”

“For your loss,” Peter says again. “MacArthur. The ghoul implied there was something a little more _personal_ there.” He hates himself, just a little, for being unable to resist digging.

The pencil drops from Chris’ hand as his head jerks up, startled. Really, does the man think he’s an idiot? The only reason Peter has survived this long is because he notices the little details. Well that, and his natural born superiority, but that’s neither here nor there.

“What? That’s not— You’re jumping to— That was over twenty years ago and not really what you’re--”

Peter’s smile grows wider and wider as Chris flounders around, and he simply wants to _gut_ him.

Chris buttons it back up within seconds and finally settles on, “It’s really not any of your business, Hale,” and goes seamlessly back to work. Which, really, Chris should know that’s just going to make it a more attractive target. He settles in and sweeps his tongue across his teeth and is just opening his mouth when a random noise from the boys’ room - a drawer opening, he thinks - abruptly changes what comes out of his mouth.

“Are you going to take him?”

Chris doesn’t bother asking what ‘him’ he’s referring to, or show any surprise at the change in subject. It’s been lurking steadily in everything they’ve said since last night anyway. “You know I am.”

“ _Why?_ ” Peter bursts out. “I didn’t realize you were that much of a masochist!”

Chris sighs and pushes the stack of papers away from him. “You know why.”

“No! No I do not! There is absolutely no reason to bring that manipulative sadist into this!” Perhaps it’s the teeniest bit hypocritical of him, seeing as how certain people have applied those descriptors to him, and more than once, but at least Peter has _standards_.

 

“Because,” Chris says patiently, his long fingers tapping restlessly along the table’s edge, “he couldn’t tell Gerard then, but he can tell him now. I’m not going to deny that to him. It would be cruel, especially now that we know it can’t change anything.”

He lets the last assumption pass, because acknowledging it would mean admitting he believes Chris is right. “ _That’s_ what this is about? He wants some cathartic _outing_ scenario? Christopher Argent, this might actually be the stupidest—”

“He doesn’t care about outing himself.” Chris is looking at him like he thinks Peter is being deliberately obtuse. “He cares about _Peter_. And he wants Gerard to know.”

“Again,” Peter hisses, leaning forward and ignoring the prickling along the back of his neck, “that is the most idiotic idea I’ve heard. And you have had a _lot_ of idiotic ideas through the years, Christopher. How exactly do you think that insane man is going to react?”

Chris spreads his hands open. “It doesn’t _matter_. It already happened, remember? And obviously they survive. So if you’re worried about some kind of retaliatory action against Peter you really don’t--”

“Christ!” Peter slams his palm down on the table. “It’s not him I’m worried about! Either of them!” And that’s more than he meant to say, but the burnt flesh smell is still in his nose and it’s making it hard for him to concentrate, to _think_. He can save it, can re-direct the sentence back on himself, because God knows everyone understands his own skin is his number one priority, but then Chris opens his big, stupid mouth again.

“There’s nothing Gerard can do to me, Peter. He’s a _prisoner_.”

Peter stares at him, then shakes his head. “My God, you really are that stupid. Because he can’t _touch_ you, he can’t damage you?” Peter knows better than anyone that physical wounds heal - even death can be reversed. Painful, but temporary. The gaping tears in a soul, though… Those wounds never heal, never even truly scar. Those scab and break and weep and scab over again, over and over and over.

Gerard’s greatest weapons against his son have never been his hands.

Chris’ fingers are playing with the table edge again, and he gives Peter another thin smile. “There’s nothing he can do to me, Peter. Not anymore. The only thing he is to me is a criminal we can’t afford to have tried.”

“You really believe that, don’t you?”

Chris shrugs. “Besides, this doesn’t concern you. It’s between me and the kid and Gerard. Go to the movies. Take the Junior shopping. Try not to piss anyone off enough to kill you. We’ll be back by tonight.”

“Nice try, Argent, but if you really think I’m passing up the chance to watch this train wreck, one of those ghouls must have hit you harder than we thought. I wouldn’t miss this for the world.” Besides, his younger self would never let Chris go without him. Argent has to know that. Of course Argent knows that. He had just wanted Peter to get around it for him. Ass.

“Suit yourself.” Chris tugs at the bottom of his shirt, and when he lets go, it springs up, releasing another whiff of fire and flesh. But it also carries Chris’ scent and all at once Peter is surrounded, convinced Chris is burning, burning, burning. Clothes melting to skin, fat melting off bone, hair singing away.

He gasps out of it a mere second later, horrified to find his claws scouring the table - and goddammit, he’d paid a _fortune_ for that table - and Chris’ hand wrapped around his wrist. He avoids Chris’ eyes and shakes off his grip.

“You should shower.” His voice is casual. Steady. Thank God. “I’ll keep sorting through these.”

Chris stands, voice just as casual, and Peter refuses to be grateful for that. “Okay.” He disappears inside his room and Peter can finally breathe again.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Chris fishes his cigarettes from the top drawer and then walks back to the bed, his ankle barely twinging after a night of ice packs and elevation. Peter is still curled on his side, staring sightlessly at the wall. He looks somehow frail and vulnerable in just his boxers and t-shirt, despite how much Chris knows that’s not true. He sits in the cradle made by Peter’s body and runs a careful hand through his sleep mussed hair.

“Are you okay? I know that’s the first time you’ve ever—” he trails off, not wanting to make it worse by rubbing it in Peter’s face. It’s different for him. He’s been killing since he was thirteen, since right before they moved to Beacon Hills. He’s used to it; used to the knowledge his killing is necessary. Righteous. But it hadn’t been like that the first time.

Peter shrugs. “I’m still not sure I have. I mean I made a lot of them bleed, but every time I went to finish, Ethan or Aiden were there taking care of it.”

“Oh.” Chris shakes a cigarette halfway from the pack and then plucks it the rest of the way with his mouth. He speaks around it, taking comfort from the feel of it between his lips. “Good.” Then he screws up his face. “But you know it’s okay, right? If you have to. To defend yourself. It’s not the same as mur—”

Peter snags the cigarette from him and tosses it on the bed with a sharp, irritated gesture. “You sound stupid talking around that thing. And I _know_ that. Do I really look like I’d just let somebody kill me? Or you?” Vulnerability disappears as he grins wide and light glances off his fangs. “I’d have no problem killing someone then.”

“Mmm.” Chris slithers down under the covers so that he and Peter are facing each other. “Well you won’t have to. I can take care of myself.” _I can take care of us both_. 

“Good.” Long, thin fingers tangle through Chris’ hair and curl through the ends. 

Chris’ eyes slide closed and he says quietly, “I’m glad you didn’t have to.”

Peter says back, just as quietly, “Me too.” There’s quiet for a long moment and he can hear the faint sounds of their older selves on the other side of the door, doing whatever stupid song and dance they’ve decided on this morning. Peter had told him what had happened in the circle, how his future version had refused to leave Peter’s. There’s a comfortable solidness in that, something that rings of truth and importance.

“Chris.” He opens his eyes at the sound of Peter’s voice. Peter is still curling his fingers absently through Chris’ hair but his eyes have gone distant again, and he’s sucking on his bottom lip. Chris thumbs it out from between his teeth and sweeps the pad of his finger across it.

“What’s going on?”

“They don’t like me, Christopher. None of those kids. Except Isaac, but he’s weird so it doesn’t count.”

“Well, I don’t like them, either,” Chris shoots back. Which isn’t completely true, but he’s pretty sure they don’t actually hate the both of them, either. Not anymore. The world is a strange place.

“No, shut up, that’s not what I’m talking about. Listen. They don’t…they don’t like me. But when I found them? When I told them I needed them to come help? They didn’t even _hesitate_. They didn’t even ask questions. Scott just separated out who he needed to stay and Isaac and Stiles just _came_.”

Chris shrugs against the mattress. He’s not sure where Peter’s going with this but nothing he’s said seems out of place. “Well, yeah. They would want to help old me and Allison.”

Peter nods knowingly. “Yeah, yeah, that’s what I thought, too. But then..they don’t like me, but they _hate_ now me. They talk about killing him almost every day. And they’re not…they’re not _joking_. But then he was down, and one of the ghouls was gonna shoot him. And…and it would have solved everyone’s problems if they had just _let_ him. But Isaac just came out of nowhere and _killed_ it. He snapped its neck without even thinking. He killed somebody to save him.

“And the twins…they can’t stand Stiles. They can’t. And he treats them like shit. But they were everywhere last night. They did everything they could to keep Stiles and Isaac from actually having to kill people. And Stiles just about took a head off this ghoul that got Aiden with a shock stick.”

Chris squinches his nose. “That’s what happens in fights. They had to be on the same side.”

“No.” Peter’s head shake is fervent. “That’s what happens in _pack_. They think of themselves as pack, even the humans. Even the ones that don’t realize it. They think of _them_ as pack.” He stabs a finger at the door. “Both of them. They think of _us_ as pack. Even if they don’t want to. They’ve just…they’ve just accepted it. And you don’t have to like your pack, Chris, but you don’t hate them, either. Their pack is _huge_. Do you know how strong that makes them?”

Peter’s expression is caught somewhere between unwilling admiration and intense dislike. Chris smooths it away with his fingertips. “So what you’re saying is you finally got me in a wolf pack. Man,” he snorts, “can you imagine dad’s face if he heard about that?”

Which is a mistake, because it reminds Peter of what Chris has deliberately been avoiding, and his face darkens thunderously.

“You’re not going,” he orders angrily.

“I am, Petie.” He tries to keep the tremor from his voice, but Peter, with his stupid werewolf ears, picks up on it immediately, right along with the sudden racing of his heart. And probably the prickles of sweat that spring up in his pits.

“No! Not when just thinking about it freaks you out!”

Chris rolls them until he’s braced on top of Peter. Tries to cajole him out of it by intoning solemnly, “The purpose of fear is to make us aware of the danger, not to make us afraid.” Then he smirks and sticks out his tongue, licking a wet swath up the bridge of Peter’s nose. Peter doesn’t even react.

“Then fucking _listen_ to it!” Peter hisses, rolling them again so that he’s pinning Chris down and they’re teetering recklessly on the edge of the bed. “He’s dangerous! Now, then, whenever! And if he tried to fuck with his own granddaughter, then you know that means he hasn’t changed at all!”

Which is true. But it doesn’t change his mind. “I’m going.”

“ _Why_?”

“Because I want to see him.” That doesn’t even scratch the surface, but it doesn’t matter how he tries to explain it - the need to just look his father in the face and claim Peter _just once_ \- Peter won’t understand. They’ll just fight about it again, just like they did last night. And he doesn’t want to fight. So when Peter shifts and his palm accidentally brushes over yesterday’s burn, Chris winces far harder than the slight shock of pain warrants. The ploy works, and Peter immediately sits up, holding out his hand.

“Let me see.”

“It’s alright,” Chris grumps, making a face before giving in and extending his arm. It really is, the scab already hardening to a true seal, but of course Peter won’t take his word for it. He seems to be eternally under the impression that Chris will keel over and die without Peter to look after him. He stares at the healing burn with angry, squinted eyes, like it has personally offended him.

“I can’t believe you did that,” he murmurs. “Sometimes—” he leans down and runs the tip of his tongue around the red, angry edges of the wound, “—sometimes you scare me with how much you race into things.”

Chris twists his lips wryly. “Well you’re in luck.” He nods at the door. “Looks like I grow completely out of it.”

“That’s not funny,” Peter says bluntly, then pokes a finger at Chris’ sternum. “Let me see the other one.”

Chris rolls his eyes but humors him and tugs off his shirt. He’s not sure he has a right to complain when he created the situation himself. Peter looks less angrily at this one, probably because it’s much farther along the path to being healed. Stitches dissolved, pink, shiny skin starting to peek out behind cracks in the scab — another week and it will be scarred over completely.

Peter runs his tongue around this one, too, and then slides back down beside Chris and curls into his shoulder. “I know what you’re doing,” which of course he does, because Peter knows him too well _not_ to immediately see Chris’ feints and dodges, “I’m letting you do it, but I know what you’re doing.”

“Thanks,” Chris answers back quietly, with total sincerity, sifting his fingers through Peter’s hair and staring up at the ceiling. 

“I still don’t want you to go. He scares me.”

“Yeah.” Sometimes Chris is scared of his dad, too. More and more. And he hates it, because he loves him, too. And he’s pretty sure you shouldn’t be scared of someone you love. But it’s hard not to flinch when he knows it’s coming. “You don’t have to come. I’ll be okay. Allison said—”

Peter slaps a hand over his mouth, hard enough that it actually stings. “No.”

Chris smiles a little and licks Peter’s palm, making sure it’s full of spit. Peter snatches his hand away and wipes it on Chris’ shirt.

“You’re disgusting.”

“Lies. All lies. You love it.”

“Well,” Peter sniffs, “I love _you_.”

“Close enough.” He turns to find Peter’s mouth and is just slipping his fingers underneath the waistband of his boxers when there’s a loud banging on their door.

“ _Up and at ‘em boys! Time for a train wreck!_ ”

Peter throws Chris’ cigarette pack at the door with a frustrated growl. “The number of times I’ve cockblocked _myself_ is disgusting, Christopher. I’m absolutely ashamed.”

Chris snickers and rolls out of bed before staring at the door in consideration. “Although,” he says slowly, “you notice _he’s_ not letting us go alone, either.”

Peter joins him, hands on hips and a smug smirk on his face. “Every cloud has its silver lining, doesn’t it?”

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

He has never stepped foot into Argent’s respectable, I’m-rich-but-too-classy-to-be-ostentatious, family man apartment. His former home, yes. Peter had broken into _that_ when Chris had first disappeared to France with Allison, curiosity and something else outweighing even his carefully cultivated boredom and even more carefully cultivated caution. Mocked family portraits and ridiculously medieval style basements one lazy Sunday afternoon when Derek wasn’t around to torture and there were no interesting movies at the theater.

But never this place, despite the fact he has far easier access here than there. It’s….tasteful, he supposes, in that bland, boring way that somehow manages to pique his ire when connected to Chris Argent. He doesn’t examine the whys, choosing rather to fall back on the familiar ground of amused disdain.

“Really, Christopher.” He pauses at a placid photo of a massive tree spreading out across a quiet field, illuminated by a fortuitously caught lightening bolt. “Was it _really_ that good of a sale at Ikea?”

Argent falters in the purposeful strides he had been taking across the open concept living room and kitchen, causing the children to nearly pile into his back in a parody of a Three Stooges skit, then looks over his shoulder with one eyebrow raised. “Are you coming, or am I leaving you to critique the art? And for your information, that’s an original by a close friend.”

“Close?” Peter shoots back, eying the way young Christopher shifts impatiently on his toes and Peter’s idiotic past self seems caught between somehow throwing himself at the boy or standing between him and the hall that leads away from the airy, welcoming space and disappears into darkness. Allison and Argent’s rooms are off the hall to the left - Allison’s door stands ajar to reveal framed butterfly art that is strangely disconcerting in conjunction with the crossbow that’s propped against the wall underneath. Argent’s door is firmly closed but Peter deduces it’s his simply by the fact he knows the man would never put Gerard in such an exposed location, not to mention so close to the daughter he almost stole away. - which means the ominous vibes reverberating from that dark hall are not without reason.

“That sounds rather scandalous, Argent. Does your daughter know about this?”

Argent rolls his eyes, giving Peter an eloquent look that speaks volumes. “She was Allison’s nanny. Victoria’s best friend. Now are you coming, or would you rather spend this time peering at the decor?” He takes back off across the room without waiting for an answer and Peter is forced to take long steps to overtake the children and catch up.

“ _Someone_ needs to examine it. You have atrocious taste,” he says silkily, as he reaches Argent’s heels right as the man knocks, quick and perfunctorily on the plain wooden door.

“Sorry it’s not to your standards.” Argent shoots back, the corner of his mouth fighting to curl up. “Been a little too busy dealing with everyone else’s shit to hire a decorator, you know.”

“Mm. Tragic, indeed.”

Argent twists the knob and pushes the door open, revealing a room that bears more resemblance to a Motel 6 than anything an Argent would ever inhabit. Looks like Argent is dealing out vengeance in unexpectedly petty ways. Peter can’t help the small stab of pride he feels.

Then Argent steps through the doorway and to one side, stance wide and arms crossed over his chest. In the space he’s left behind, Peter can see Gerard, sitting in a wheelchair by the room’s sole window, a tacky afghan across his lap that Peter really, really hopes came straight from a thrift store. He’s old, so much older than Peter remembers from even months ago, and all around his nostrils is caked black, sticky, blood.

It’s the only thing Scott has ever done of which Peter approved, although he supposes the plot in actuality came from Deaton.

“Why is the dog here?” Gerard sneers at Argent, not even bothering to look at Peter. There are so, so many things rolling around on the tip of Peter’s tongue, but he bites them back as he takes up position on the other side of the door, unconsciously mirroring Argent’s posture as he crosses his arms and leans back against the wall.

Argent doesn’t have time to answer, even if he’d been inclined. Chris walks through the door, Peter at his heels, and Gerard’s head jerks between the two of them and Argent as he wheels his chair around to face them directly.

“ _What is this_ ,” he drawls out, still managing to make his confusion sound like an accusation. A growling threat. Peter forces an unexpected spike of knee jerk fear down. This is not the Gerard Argent of his youth. This is not a man who can ever harm him or his again. And if Peter really believed that he’d be a bigger fool than he accuses his nephew of being.

“The Nemeton has been used,” Argent answers dryly. “The results, as usual, were spectacular. That's all you need to know.” He nods to where his younger self is staring, wide eyed, at Gerard. “He wanted to see you.”

“Dad?” Chris breathes, tongue wetting dry lips. The look on his face is a strange mix of fear and longing. It’s easy to forget that in those days Chris had been more about _wanting_ to hate Gerard than actually being able to. He doesn’t know exactly when the other shoe had dropped, being as how he was a little more concerned with getting resurrected than Chris’ familial drama, but even though hate might be the strongest emotion Argent feels now, Peter is certain it doesn’t change the fact some small part of the man still loves the monster that is Gerard.

“Christopher,” Gerard breathes. “Look at you. So young. Before you became _that_.” He casts a disparaging look at Argent, who stares implacably back.

“It’s Chris,” the boy corrects automatically, and Peter stifles a smile he feels sure would be echoed by his younger self if he wasn’t too busy looking spasmodically between Gerard and young Christopher. He can see his fingers curled in and his Adam’s apple bobbling as he swallows compulsively. Once Talia had found out the Argents were hunters, she had done her research. And what she had discovered had been nothing short of terrifying, especially for a teenager who had up until then believed wholeheartedly in his invincibility.

There were boogiemen in the night, alright, and the Argent line were chief among them.

“Christopher is a good name.” Gerard waves his hand, dismissing his complaint. “Your grandfather’s name. I used to have hopes you would live up to it.” Then his expression turns speculative, quick as a snake. “Perhaps you still can.”

The boy actually takes a step back, head shaking frantically as he sucks in a breath. Then he seems to get a hold of himself and his spine stiffens. Really, this is the best entertainment Peter has had in _ages_. His eyes flash to Argent, to gauge his reaction, but he’s still expressionless, the fingers tapping against his upper arm the only sign there’s anything going on behind that mask at all.

“No,” Chris says again, defiant steel in his words. “I don’t want to be him. My name is _Chris_.”

“Then _why_ are you here, _boy_?” The speculation hasn’t left Gerard’s face, and Peter just bets he’d love to get his hands on Christopher a second time. Have a second chance to raise up his offspring exactly the way he wants. Make sure he didn’t make whatever missteps he’d made the first go round. After all, there’s no Victoria to ruin his plans this time. It’s just too bad for him that he doesn’t yet realize there’s always been a Peter.

Chris’ eyes don’t leave Gerard’s as he puts his hand out, palm up. Young, idiotic, idealistic, _foolish_ Peter is there to meet him half way, placing his hand on top of his and twining their fingers together as Chris tugs him close.

“I’m here,” Chris says - and Peter has to give him credit; unless he listens very closely he can barely hear the tremor in his voice — “because I want you to know that all those times you thought I was getting information for you, I was actually sucking Peter’s _dick_.” Chris spits the words out like weapons, and Peter vaguely wonders if he thinks Gerard will be more infuriated by the fact Chris is holding hands with a boy or the fact that boy is a werewolf. “I want you to know he’s mine and you will never _ever_ change that.”

For a moment it threatens to catapult Peter back ( _"Peter...Peter look at me. You're_ mine _, okay? Mine._ ) and he manages to stay in the now only by dint of his utter irritation at the whole situation. It would be sweet, really, if it weren’t so _pointless_ \- and maybe if anything resembling a soul hadn’t been burnt out of Peter years ago - because none of this matters in the long run. This momentary act of defiance won’t change a single goddamn thing, at least not for the two of them. The only people left to get get fucked out of this show of bravado are the ones that exist _now_ , in this time. Which is likely why Peter gets the sudden urge to punch Argent in the face for allowing this travesty. Instead he tucks his hands deeper into his armpits and watches the scene unfold with mild amusement.

Gerard, of course, cuts right to the quick of the matter, barely glances at their joined hands before sneering at Chris, lips turned up in a mocking sneer. “Oh, big brave man, aren’t you, boy? You think I don’t know why you’re doing this now? Why you waited until I was stuck in this goddamn wheelchair and my life drips out of every orifice to tell me you’re bending over for a dog? Why you’ll never make a peep to my face in the right time? It’s because you’re a goddamn coward, boy. A goddamn, sniveling coward.”

Chris’ face is turning red, his jaw popping as his eyes flash wide, caught between fury and mortification. But Gerard has already dismissed him, turning the burning disdain of his gaze to Argent.

“There’s a reason it was Kate I tasked with the burning, you spineless milksop. She was more of a son than you ever were. But you loved her, so I always wondered why you let her murderer wander free.” He snorts. “Now I know it’s because you were too busy getting on your hands and knees for that mongrel. It’s no wonder you didn’t fight harder to keep your wife alive; probably were already on your belly when they put her in the ground. No wonder you let your child whore herself out to those beasts.

“You should be glad your mother died before she saw the disappointment you grew into.”

There’s nothing, absolutely _nothing_ in Argent’s eyes as he grins wide and toothy at Gerard. “You should be glad she died before she saw what you did to her children.”

“You should stop talking.” That hiss comes from young Peter, who is staring at Gerard with a kind of blazing hatred that Peter’s not sure he can even remember anymore. Except he can. Oh he _can_. “You should stop talking. You don’t know anything about him. You don’t even know your own _son_. You don’t know how strong and —”

“No one gave you permission to speak, dog.” Gerard dismisses him much the same as he’d swat an annoying mosquito, and Peter shakes his head, his lips quirked in amusement. Unable, as much as he tries, to keep his mouth shut and let his younger version hang himself.

“He’s right, though, you know. You really knew absolutely nothing about what your child was up to. Some hunter you were. And besides,” Peter says airily, “we all know _I’m_ the one with the rug burns. He’s the one moaning in my ear, telling me how hot and tight and perfect I am. How much he can’t get enough. How much he never wants to leave. How much he loves being balls deep in an _animal_.” He catches himself right as his voice drops to a violent growl, and brushes a piece of lint from his sleeve to re-collect himself. Argent’s the only one who can challenge the lie. “Tell me, Gerard, which one makes your stomach turn less? Your son getting fucked by a dog, or your son getting off on fucking one?”

“Shut up!” Chris has let go of young Peter’s hand to ball his hands into white knuckled fists at his side. “Shut up, shut up, _shut up_!” Young Peter has his hand on the back of his neck, the up and down motion of his thumb more panicked than soothing, and there’s something about both of them that just looks broken. It doesn’t give Peter as much joy as he’d thought it would.

“Shut up,” Chris says again, this time small and whispered. Then his nostrils flare and his face goes blank in a startling imitation of Argent, and Peter wonders if this is it, if he’s witnessing when the switch first flipped and Argent’s lingering illusions of his father were ripped away. 

Chris’ voice is deadly calm when he continues. “I’m a better man than you. The man I become is a better father than you. And my daughter is better than us both. You don’t get to win. Not this time.”

Gerard’s smile is darker than a thousand nights and colder than a thousand winters. “I always win, boy. I’ll always win.” He flicks his fingers at Argent and turns his chair so he’s facing the window again. “Get him out of here. I have no use for him anymore. For either of you.” He hacks into a handkerchief and wipes away a trickle of black that’s escaped his nose, then peers intently through the glass. The dismissal is clear, just as clear as the angry frustration on Chris’ face that he’s not even important enough for his father to _fight_ with him.

Argent raises an eyebrow and says mildly, “You might think differently when dinnertime gets here.” Then he turns to Chris. “You done with this now? Got it out of your system?”

Peter can hear the grind of Chris’ teeth as he nods sharply. “Yeah.”

Peter pushes off the wall and rolls his neck, the tendons popping at the sudden release of tension. “Thank God. Listening to self aggrandizing windbags is bad for my complexion. Come on now.” He shoos the children toward the door. “Out, out.”

Gerard doesn’t look at them once as they all file out of the room.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

The boys crawl wordlessly into the third row of the SUV, and for once, Argent makes no noise about safety or seat belts as he pulls the vehicle into traffic. The plan had been to take the boys to school, but he had known that wasn’t going to happen before the outing had even begun.

“He’s right, though,” Peter hears Chris whisper. “I am a coward. Because I can’t…I can’t tell him when we go back.”

“Don’t you dare, Christopher Argent.” Peter casually flips down his visor so that he can watch his younger self glare at Chris as he angrily hisses, “Don’t you _dare_.” He cups Chris’ face in his hands and presses their foreheads together. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry he’s a jerk. He doesn’t deserve you. Are you okay?”

“I’m fine. I’m fine. I wanted him to know and now he knows.” Chris repeats the phrase again, as if it’s a talisman that can protect him, then all at once collapses, burying his head in Peter’s chest. His shoulders shake and the smell of salt water fills the air as he silently sobs, young Peter’s arms wrapped so tightly about him he’s going to break something if he’s not careful.

Peter remembers then how quiet Chris’ tears had always been. He shoots a look at Argent, who’s staring fixedly at the road. His face is calm and placid, but there’s a tightness across his shoulders, and every few seconds a single finger taps against the steering wheel.

There are a lot of things Peter could say, most of them cutting and starting with _I told you so_ , but he settles on, “How are the ribs?”

“Barely hurt anymore. I’ll survive.”

It was easier, Peter thinks, when they didn’t always have to speak in layers. “You always do,” he replies lightly, then trades speaking with watching trees slide by on the side of the road.

The smell of salt water continues to permeate the remainder of the journey home, and when they walk into the loft, young Peter hustles Chris into the bedroom, all while shooting daggers at he and Argent, daring either of them to say something. 

Personally, Peter thinks someone should give him an award for the restraint he’s exercising. Argent makes no comment, either, just walks directly to the table and starts sifting through files again. The way he deals with emotional turbulence has altered as he’s aged. Or rather, he’s gotten far more skilled at compartmentalizing.

Or perhaps not. There’s a long moment where he shuffles through papers, pausing here and there to make a note as Peter simply watches, leaning against the kitchen island and trying to decipher the sense of gathering storm clouds he feels in the air. Then, without warning, Argent sweeps an arm across the table, sending boxes and papers flying, and stands, shoving his chair back so hard it topples with a shotgun bang and a sickening crack as the wood breaks. His eyes search the room before settling on the nearest thing, a decorative set of three heavy marble spheres, elevated on a teak platter set in the middle of the kitchen counter (an arrangement that for which Peter had paid a ridiculous amount of money.)

Peter knows exactly what’s coming. “Argent! Don’t even think about—”

He’s too late, of course, not that he thinks it would have mattered if he _had_ gotten the whole sentence out. Argent hefts a sphere in his hand and flings it, fast pitch, through the patio door. The glass shatters in a brilliant, cascading explosion, and Argent’s damn lucky the sphere doesn’t go farther than the patio wall, because its plunge to the street would have killed someone for sure.

There’s the sound of pounding feet and Peter’s younger self bursts out the bedroom, looking between the two of them with wild eyes. Argent is breathing hard, his hands balled in fists at his side and teeth bared as he stares at the disaster he’s made. Then all at once he takes a deep breath and forces his fingers to unfurl. He pulls his wallet from his pocket and throws a credit card on the table.

“That should cover it.”

He walks into his room, slamming the door so hard behind him the walls shake and another round of glass falls, tinkling to the floor.

Glass crunches beneath his shoes as Peter walks out and retrieves the sphere, returning it carefully to its place with the others. A breeze wafts through the open space and ruffles his hair, and he supposes it’s a good thing they’re in the middle of summer.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

The balcony is hot in the midday sun. Chris has dragged a chair from the table out - Peter’s ‘aesthetics’ be damned - and has his feet thrown up on the railing, a long necked beer bottle dangling from one hand.

There had been no mess to clean up when he’d finally re-emerged last night. All the glass swept away, and all the files set back in neat stacks on the table. There had been a single sheet of paper on top, with an astronomical amount written on it. He supposes it’s fair, all things considered. There’s no sound from either of the boys’ rooms, but he could hear Peter moving around somewhere up in his loft. He wasn’t not quite ready to face anyone yet, so he quickly pilfered the refrigerator and slipped away again.

This morning the four of them seemed to be in unspoken agreement that they were all going to pretend yesterday had never happened, despite the gaping balcony door frame, which suited Chris just fine. Juniors bundled up and Juniors off to school, and Chris and Peter rededicate themselves to trying to figure out who the hell had offed three people just to fuck with their sense of equilibrium.

Currently he’s taking a break, because all the pictures and words had started to run together and Peter had looked at him with an unreadable expression that Chris _hates_ before taking a beer from the refrigerator, setting it into Chris hand, and shoving him onto the balcony. So he sips his beer and closes his eyes and tries to make all the random facts and patterns make any more sense than they have over the past week and a half.

They’re going to find Jennifer tonight — not necessarily find so much as show up uninvited. Because Derek may not know where she lives, but Chris does, and while he’s kept that to himself so far, because he believes in having aces up his sleeve, he can’t help the feeling they’re somehow running out of time. So he’s going to let his morals take a backseat to Peter’s methods, even though at this point he’s not sure Peter’s convinced any more than he is that Jennifer is actually behind this, or if she was just the most convenient place to cast suspicion. It’s a position Peter’s been in more than once, although to be fair, they’ve usually been right about Peter.

They’re waiting on Deaton to return their message on the matter of irreversible memory spells - fruitlessly, in Chris’ opinion, seeing as how Deaton hasn’t deigned to return any of their calls unless it comes through Scott; but eventually his phone vibrates against his thigh so perhaps his judgment is unfair. He sets his beer down and drops his feet to the concrete before digging it out of his pocket.

He pauses, a frown crossing his face as he stares at the incoming number. It’s not Deaton, it’s his younger self. And in the entire time this fiasco has been underway, the kid hasn’t dialed his number once.

He feels Peter join him, his own beer loosely in hand, so he answers the phone on speaker.

“Why aren’t you in class?”

The kid’s voice is reluctant, like it’s being dragged out of him one word at a time. “ _I need your help_.”

I. Not _we_. It’s a small, but important distinction and Chris looks back and catches Peter’s eye. “What’s wrong?”

“ _I can’t find Peter_.”

Hale snatches the phone from Chris and brings it to his mouth. “What did you say?” As if there’s any way to misunderstand the kid’s words.

“ _I can’t find Peter. He wasn’t at lunch and he’s not in the hall and I bribed Ms. Daniels to look on the camera and he’s not anywhere on them. He's not answering his phone. He’s_ gone.”

* * * * * * * * * * * * * *


	20. Chapter 20

The apartment is just as quiet as it had been yesterday, just as still, but now it is dark, too. The door to Allison’s room is closed now. She’s at school, just like Chris, but even if she weren’t she wouldn’t be here. He’d heard that phone call, between Chris’ older self and she, where Chris had told her to stay at Lydia’s for now. That’s all he had said, but Peter knows why. Because Gerard is a snake, and Gerard is still dangerous, and Gerard still has reach even now.

Gerard will never stop.

Yesterday had been filled with the smell of Chris’ pain. With his sorrow. With his fear and his anger and his heartache. It had been overwhelming and stifling because it had come in drenching waves from _both_ Chris’, even though one had tried to pretend he wasn’t feeling anything at all and then shut himself in his room. Did he think that would stop it? That a _door_ could hide the scent that rolled all though the loft and into the bed where Peter had his arms wrapped around his Chris, rubbing soothing hands up and down his back and pretending the pillow was wet from sweat and not the tears slowly leaking from the corners of Chris’ eyes.

Did he think it would stop the _other Peter_ from smelling it? As he moved through the main room, uncharacteristically quiet as he’d cleaned away the evidence from the earlier storm, casting furrowed brow glances at Argent’s door? As his nose had periodically flared as he’d hovered around where Peter silently made sandwiches and sliced cookie dough taken from a tube?

“Why does he let it keep happening?” he’d finally asked his older self, who had shrugged while stealing four slices of bread from Peter and starting a pot of eggs boiling on the stove.

“Because he can’t not. It’s the nature of the game.”

Peter had hung around long enough to watch his future self make two egg salad sandwiches, slathering it rather thick on one of them before putting it into a Ziploc bag and throwing it into the refrigerator. He wonders if Chris still liked egg salad sandwiches as much as an adult as he does as a teenager.

Yesterday had been filled to overflowing with the smell of Chris’ pain. Filled with Peter’s inability to do more than mute it, mitigate it, try to provide a buffer. This time there wasn’t even anything to stitch together. No blood to wipe away, no wound to disinfect. Nothing that Peter could _do_.

This morning Peter had woken to a kind of numbness, like he was swathed in gauze and couldn’t quite sense the world around him, at least not properly, and the only thing he could feel inside him was a steely rage that threatened to choke him every time he looked at Chris and saw eyes left puffy by a night of no real sleep. The numbness grew over breakfast as he’d watched both Chris’ pretend that nothing was wrong, that nothing had even happened. Spread through his veins and morphed into a kind of ice as the other Peter kept silent and calmly buttered toast and used his fork to cut symmetrical slices of eggs easy over, no longer looking startled or that he even really noticed Argent constantly putting fingertips on his wrist or his shoulder or forearm. Anchoring, anchoring, anchoring and even as young as he is, Peter already understands that kind of anchor goes both ways.

The numbfuryicyblood feeling grows all through the ride to school as Chris holds his hand and grins and jokes but there’s a bloody spot on his lip from where he’d bitten it last night to make himself stop crying. As the older Chris turns on the radio and taps his fingers to the beat and doesn’t sing anything at all.

It grows during history and biology and English, and by the time fourth period is ending he knows what he has to do. He tells Stiles he has to take a piss before meeting Chris at the lunch line, turns his phone off and drops it into a trashcan and slips right out the door before God or man can see him go.

The apartment is just as quiet as it had been yesterday, just as still, but now it is dark, too. Peter doesn’t need the light, though, to make his way across the living room and down a short hall. To push open a door without preamble. To step inside as Gerard Argent greets him with a sneer.

“Well, if it isn’t the Hale whelp. Think you’re big and bad, do you, boy? Sneaking back in here to confront the scary hunter?”

Peter says nothing, just closes the door behind him.

“What? Come to tell me some more about how in _love_ you are with my son? How you’re each others _soul mates_? How I just need to accept it and him and make my peace? And then we can all hug it out and end this hatred?”

Peter shakes his head and moves closer, the disdain and hate in Gerard’s eyes sliding sideways off the ice that encases him. “No. You would never do that anyway. I’m here to kill you.”

Gerard laughs, short and sharp, and it startles him, just a little. “No you’re not, boy. You’re still all pink underbelly. Can’t have balls if they haven’t even dropped yet. You still need to wait a few years for my daughter to burn some courage into you. The phone’s in the kitchen. Call someone to give you a ride back to wherever you came from and go back to licking your hurt pride.”

Peter doesn’t hear half of what he says, lost in the buzz in his brain and his claws sliding out. He realizes suddenly there’s no light on in this room, either, yet Gerard seems to see Peter just as well as Peter can see him. Another puzzle for another time. 

As Peter closes the distance between them, Gerard’s look turns speculative. “You’re what ruined him, aren’t you? I thought it was Victoria. Thought my one mistake was thinking she could bring him back to the fold. But it was you, all along, wasn’t it? You filthy _mutt_.”

Peter moves lightening quick, reaching the table drawer just milliseconds before Gerard does. He slams it shut and kicks Gerard’s wheelchair a safe distance away before opening it and peering inside. Gerard doesn’t scowl or look worried or anything other than amused when Peter pulls the gun out. He can tell it’s loaded by its weight and that the bullets are Wolfsbane tipped by their smell, and he ejects the clip and the bullet in the chamber before flinging all three pieces carelessly under the bed.

“Hmm,” Gerard says, a tiny smile on his lips. Peter can hear his heart pounding in his chest, but outwardly there’s not a single sign he’s in any way upset or panicked by this turn of events. He does reach up a knuckle to wipe black snot off his upper lip, and then tilts his head to the side.

“My son doesn’t know you’re here, does he? That’s why you’re alone. He wouldn’t let you do this if he knew. I doubt he’ll forgive you for this. He’s loyal to his family. He’s loyal to _me_.”

“I know,” Peter says, to everything. He pricks his thumb claw into the pads of his other fingers as he takes the final steps to Gerard’s side. “You really fucked him up. You fucked all of us up.” There’s a tear in the frozen numbness coating him, a tiny rend that’s growing wider, and something hot begins racing through his veins. He raises his hand high, fingers spread and claws sharp, and stares Gerard Argent in the eye.

“Have a care, boy.” There’s a spark in Gerard’s eyes as he watches his own impending death. But not fear. Never fear. It’s closer to satisfaction, if Peter were to take the time to analyze it, closer to the look of someone who knows they’re about to win the fight. “You do this, you’ll get a taste for it. Once will never be enough.”

“I don’t care,” Peter says solemnly. The icy cold finally shatters into a million fiery pieces, and he sweeps his claws down.

* * * * * * * * * * * *

“I _told_ you,” Peter grits out, clicking his seatbelt in place as the SUV takes off in a squealing lurch that leaves behind the smell of burning rubber and perilously threatens to make Peter lose his lunch. “I told you taking him anywhere near that sadist was a mistake. But _noooooo_ , you had to give him his chance. Had to give him his romantic once-in-a-life-time-let’s-be-stupidly-brave moment. _Christ_! You’re just as big an idiot now as you were then! Who knows what Gerard has done to him… _me_ …by now!”

“Peter.” Chris is staring intently out the windshield as he navigates through traffic at breakneck speeds toward the school. “Shut up.”

“I will _not_ shut up, Argent. You’re not the one who could cease to exist at any moment because—”

“Well you’re definitely the one _not helping_. And nothing’s going to happen to you. You know that.”

“Nothing that I’ll _remember_ ,” he says sullenly, crossing his arms and looking out the window. “Lack of memory does not equate to lack of consequences.”

“I know.” Chris concedes the point without argument, which almost makes Peter _more_ pissed off. “But you’re jumping ahead. You’re assuming he didn’t walk out on his own volition.”

“Without _you_? He never would have left you behind, Christopher. Or at least told you what was happening.”

A small smile creeps up one side of Chris’ face, creasing his cheek beneath the ever present stubble. It’s one bit of Argent that has annoyingly but undeniably improved with age. “I can think of a few notable times you didn’t tell me shit, Hale.”

Peter snorts, fiddling with the air vents and mentally calculating the remainder of time they have left before they reach the school. “That was different. That was self preservation. And you wouldn’t have found out if you weren’t such a creepy stalker. And coming from a family that basically perfected creepy stalking, that’s saying something.”

“I was _worried_. I thought you were in trouble, you dummy. Besides,” the other side of Chris’ mouth turns up to match the first, “I think it worked out just fine in the end.”

“Did it, Christopher?” he asks faintly. “Did it?”

“Petie…” for one horrifying moment Peter thinks Chris is about to say it, about to broach something _real_ , and he’s crafting something suitably cutting to shut him up, because he is not— he is _not_ , but in the end Chris just tosses him his phone.

“There’s a phone tracking app on there. The boys’ phones are registered. See where his is.”

It’s enough to distract him until the panic clears from his lungs. Unlock the phone. Resist the urge to snoop through Argent’s phone (it’s actually not that hard for once, seeing as how he’s trying to save his own ass). Pull up the app. Thumb down through registered phones - Allison, Isaac, Chris - J, Peter - J, Peter Hale. Peter’s eyebrows fly up at that but he’ll save that fight for another time - and tap his younger version’s locater pin.

They squeal into the school parking lot, all the way to the front steps, where Chris is waiting with backpack over shoulder and feet shifting impatiently. Argent throws the car into park and they’re out the doors before Chris has made it halfway down the stairs.

“Turn back around,” Argent orders. “His phone is still in the school.”

“But he’s not—”

“Turn back around, you can’t be sure. Besides we need the cameras.”

Peter doesn’t waste time arguing. He grabs Chris’ arm and drags him behind he and Argent, not bothering being gentle since his younger half isn’t here to overreact. Argent holds the phone out in front of him, following the flashing light on the GPS as it gradually approaches and then finally merges with the steady, solid dot that represents them.

They’re in front of a trashcan, students milling about them as classes change. A few look at them curiously, but most of them are too busy getting from one place to another to pay them much mind. Peter can only hope none of the Scooby Gang wander by; the last thing they need is more children mucking this up.

Argent looks meaningfully at the trash can and then at Peter. Peter lifts an eyebrow and looks right back, keeping his grip on Chris’ elbow, even though the child isn’t trying to fight anymore. They’ve already lost one half of the dynamic duo and he’s not about to risk losing the other one. He and Argent hold each others stare for another minute before Argent gives in, rolls his eyes, and starts rummaging through the trash. Argent comes up with the phone, which ends the hope they’ll find it and his younger self together.

But even a phone tells its own story. The three of them crowd around as Argent powers it on, the screen lighting up to reveal a smirking picture of Chris’ face as he flips the camera off. Argent scrolls through texts - he makes an exasperated noise at the amount of sexting he finds and Peter bets that if he looks he’d see young Christopher turning beet red - and past calls - mainly Chris but two from Isaac and one from Lydia and isn’t that interesting - before turning to his Google Maps app. Chris makes a small sound and Argent starts as the last address searched pops up.

“I don’t…what?” Argent is being slow. Peter knows with sudden certainty exactly why his younger self would Google the location of Argent’s high rise and then disappear without a word. The bell has rung for classes and the hall is all at once deathly silent and Peter says into that calm—

“He left on his own. No one took him.” He’s saved from having to explain further by young Chris’ phone ringing, echoing sharp in the empty halls.

Chris frowns at it. “I don’t know the number?”

Argent speaks warily, staring at Chris’ phone like it might dart out and bite him. “It’s our land line from the apartment. Answer it.”

He could have saved his breath, because the boy has already put it to his ear, the second Argent identified the source of the call. “Petie?”

Peter can easily hear the other side of the call, and he thinks even without extrasensory hearing, the microphone is working well enough that Argent can as well.

_“Can you come get me? Can you ask…”_ There’s a choking sound that interrupts the sentence and Peter realizes his younger self is crying. _“…them to take you to come get me? I’m at his apartment,”_ he tacks on, almost like an afterthought.

“Yeah, yeah of course.” He shoots Peter and Argent a dirty look and turns his back on them, as if that will grant him some privacy. “What’s going on, Petie?” His voice is low and strained with worry. “Are you okay?”

_“I’m okay, I’m okay.”_ There’s a hiccup and a sob and Peter is pretty sure those are stifled enough that only he and the boy can hear them, although Argent is staring intently at Chris, his arms crossed as he chews a thumbnail. _“I’m sorry.”_

“What have you got to be sorry for, Petie?” Chris asks, light and soothing. “Did you forget to grab our project notes this morning? Or did you finally hamstring Stiles? I don’t think anybody should apologize for that.”

_“I’m so sorry, Christopher. I’m so sorry. He just wouldn’t stop hurting you. He never stops. Will you please come and get me? I need…I need you to come get me.”_

“Petie…Petie, what are you talking— Petie? Petie? We’re on our way. Are you still— Petie?”

He isn’t. Peter had heard the second the call had disconnected, with a static click you don’t get with cell phones. Chris stares at the phone as he turns to them. “He didn’t…I think he hung up.”

He’s obviously not there yet, but perhaps Argent is, because with a calm that’s so eerie it sends shivers down Peter’s spine, he gently pries the phone from Chris’ hand and nudges him toward the door. “Let’s go get him.”

It’s only when Chris is half a dozen steps ahead of them, and only because Peter is looking, that he sees the tightness set in around Argent’s eyes and mouth and his Adam’s apple bob as he repetitively swallows.

“Do you need me to drive?” he asks, in that sub-vocal way they’d perfected decades ago. After all, he has no desire to die over Argent’s familial angst.

“Hale,” Argent says pedantically, in that same, sub-vocal voice, “after you ripped Kate’s throat out, I helped Derek rip up floorboards, dig a hole, and frame my sister for murder. And still somehow managed to drive Allison safely home. I think I’ll be just fine.”

“Well,” Peter shrugs, walking out of the shadow of the doorway and into the blinding bright sunlight of the midday sun, “suit yourself.”

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Argent drives at far saner speeds to his apartment than he did to the school, and Peter isn’t sure if it’s because he’s trying to avoid what’s waiting at their destination, or if he figures what’s done is done and it’s not worth drawing attention to get there any quicker. But when they finally get to the apartment and Argent’s hands are shaking so badly he drops his keys, Peter decides it’s probably a mixture of both. 

He walks around where Argent’s crouched in the hallway, retrieving said keys, and pulls out his own set. First time for everything he supposes.

“You have keys to his apartment?” Chris is watching him with something far too close to a smirk on his face. He doesn’t seem to have figured out what’s going on, more deeply interested in getting to young Peter than wondering on why in the hell he would have snuck out to Argent’s apartment in the first place. He doesn’t remember either of them being quite as slow as it appears they were.

“Yes,” he says blithely, without expounding. 

He inserts the key without looking back and opens the door. Or he at least tries to. It stops, halfway in, blocked by something in the foyer. That something, he finds when he warily wedges half his body through the space, turns out to be him. Past him, that is.

“Christ,” he hisses, as he gets a good look at him, sitting against the wall with his knees drawn up and his head buried in his arms. He’s the tiniest bit taken aback, despite himself. “Christ. Did you _bathe_ in him? Scoot over so we can get in.”

The boy obeys listlessly,without looking up, and Peter steps in the rest of the way, holding the door open for Argent and Chris to follow through. As soon as they’re in, he immediately shuts and deadbolts it before turning around.

“Oh my God, Petie. What the fuck happened? Are you okay? Look at me. Look at me. Are you okay?” Chris falls to his knees in front of young Peter, voice just as alarmed as one would expect for a teenager confronted with his boyfriend covered in blood. “What did Gerard _do_?” he wails. It’s the first time Peter has heard him refer to his father by his first name since this fiasco began. Beginnings and endings…beginnings and endings. How many of those had taken place here, without either of them ever knowing?

“He didn’t do anything.” The boy’s muffled voice is a hushed, brittle whisper, and underneath the flaking crust of dried blood, the tips of his ears are red.

“Then what happened? Look at me, Petie, okay?” Chris has turned to coaxing. “Let me see you’re alright.”

The boy’s whole body shudders as he takes one long, sobbing breath. He does not raise his head. “I’m sorry, Chris. I’m so, so sorry. He won’t stop hurting you. He never stops hurting you. He was _still_ hurting you. I couldn’t…I didn’t…I couldn’t let him keep doing that. I’m sorry. I’m so fucking sorry.”

Chris falls back on his haunches, the light bulb finally going off. “Wait. Did you…You…killed my dad?”

“He was _never_ going to stop, Chris. And you couldn’t stop him. You _couldn’t_. So I had to do it for you. Please don’t hate me.” The last bit is plaintive and a touch hopeless and Peter rolls his eyes. Because that would be the response of a sane person. And as teenagers, Christopher Argent had never done well with sane responses to Peter Hale.

“You killed my dad for me?” Chris breathes out. And yes, there’s disbelief and horror in the words, but it’s far outweighed by the way he looks at young Peter’s bloody hair with a mixture of wonder and worship, like Peter’s some kind of avenging angel that’s descended to the mortal coil, just for him.

“Yes,” the boy answers, sniffing with a disgusting, snotty sound that has Peter grimacing.

“Why won’t you look at me, Peter? I want you to look at me.”

“No. I don’t want you to see my eyes.”

“Petie. Come on.” Chris wedges a finger between Peter’s arms and nudges against his chin until Peter lifts his head and meets his eyes.

“Let me see,” Chris commands softly. The boy obeys, letting his eyes shift.

“Petie, they’re still yellow. And even if they weren’t—”

“They are?” His shock seems to have at least made his tears dry up, and Peter finally interrupts the tete-a-tete with barely concealed impatience. 

“Of course they are, you idiot. Gerard Argent was as far from an innocent life as you could get.”

He doesn’t wait to see what they make of that, because he’s more concerned that while Argent’s younger self has been discovering his inner Mallory, the man himself had inconspicuously stepped around them and is now tracing bloody footprints backwards across the living room floor and disappearing down the hall.

Peter sprints after him, catching him just as he opens Gerard’s door. “Argent! Stop. You shouldn’t go in there. You don’t need to go in—”

Argent doesn’t listen, because of-fucking-course he doesn’t listen, and walks in anyway. There’s only the slightest stutter to his step when he first sees the room, but his voice is firm, if somehow out of focus and vague. “No, I’m fine. It’s fine.”

Peter steps in behind and sucks in a quick breath before he can stop it.

“I’ll have to…I’ll have to take the carpet out altogether. I don’t think…I don’t think this can be cleaned. The walls we can repaint. The bed…I think we’ll have to burn that.” Chris’ voice is very distant now, as his eyes jump around the room, almost as if he’s seeing it, but _not_ seeing it, either. They never rest very long in one place, and they avoid entirely the bloody lump in one corner. 

“Christopher, you shouldn’t be in here. I can call someone. Bring someone in—”

“He was very thorough, wasn’t he?” Argent asks absently.

Frankly, Peter’s a little embarrassed at his younger self’s lack of restraint; this shows no finesse or artistry at all, only uncontrolled, messy rage. There’s very little left of Gerard that’s even recognizable. A single cut would have done the job but he clearly did not stop until Gerard was in pieces. Quite literally. He also feels the tiniest bit envious that he can’t remember the feel of tearing Gerard Argent apart with his bare hands.

“And the floor in the living room. We might get away with just a good cleaning, don’t you think? Although,” he says absently, like he’s moving through some imaginary checklist, “it’s probably better to just replace it along with this. It will match, like all new carpet was intended.”

“Argent, stop. You need to walk out of here now. Go check on the boys and see—”

Chris rolls on, undaunted by the attempted interruption, making lists so he can pretend he’s still somehow in control. “We could probably use the carpet to roll the body— We could roll it up to get it— We could get him out of here in the—”

All at once the stream of increasingly garbled words cuts abruptly off, and Chris gasps out a laugh. Peter jumps at the unexpected sound, and then it’s like Chris can’t _stop_ laughing. “All this time…all this time and you killed Gerard after all. And we didn’t even know.” He bends over, hands resting on his knees as he chortles, tears streaming down his face as he laughs and laughs, sounding more and more hysterical with every passing second. “You fucking killed Gerard! And you _didn’t. even. know_. Do you think our families are even now?” He straightens, still laughing, and there’s a glazed over wildness in his eyes that makes Peter take a step closer.

“Christopher.” Argent’s shoulders are shaking uncontrollably as laughter continues to spill out, right along with the tears. “ _Argent_.” Peter snaps his fingers in front of his face. “Look at me.”

“Gerard must have been so _pissed off_! Can you imagine his _face_?” Chris throws his head back and howls with laughter, and Peter does the only thing he knows to do.

He wraps his arms around Chris and pins him flush against him. Holds him so tightly there’s no way he can escape and puts his mouth to his ear. He keeps his voice soft and very, very quiet. “Christopher, stop. It’s okay. You’re alright. You don’t need to be here. I can take care of this. I will take care of this. I will make sure this is all cleaned away. This isn’t about how tough or brave you are. Or proving how little you cared for him. I could never have been in the room with my family’s bodies. Christopher, _breathe_.”

He struggles at first, flailing in surprise. But Peter refuses to move and slowly the mirth shakes out of him, until the laughter’s gone altogether and nothing but the shaking and the wetness against Peter’s temple is left.

“Deep breath,” Peter orders. Chris draws in a heavy draught of air, his chest pressing into Peter’s as it inflates. “Good. Again.” Chris obeys, the exchange of carbon dioxide for oxygen the only other sound between them.

After the second breath, there’s no more shaking and Peter immediately steps back, his hands falling useless to his sides. Argent’s eyes are clear, focused and present again, and Peter is no longer afraid he’s going to break into pieces. Normally, that sight would be something of which Peter is highly in favor, but this tastes sour and tinny in the back of his throat. It makes sense, though. It’s only really fun if he’s the one destroying Argent. He’s definitely not handing that power to Gerard fucking Argent. Especially after he’s _dead_.

“There,” he says matter of factly. “That’s better. Now, why don’t you go to the kitchen and find something sugary to drink. I don’t have time to deal with you going into shock.”

Chris smiles wryly. “I’m fine, Hale.” Peter gives him one arched eyebrow. “Okay, not fine. But I’m not going to fall apart again, so you can stop worrying I’m about to go crazycakes on you. And I’m not letting you take care of this.”

“Well that’s just insulting. I’m perfectly capable of—”

“I’m not taking care of it either.” Peter notices he’s still not looking at Gerard’s body. Peter had not looked overly long at Laura’s, either. “We have people who take care of these kinds of messes. It’s been awhile since I’ve called them in, but—”

“If you think I’m going to allow your little hunter friends to find out I killed their demon king, you’re sadly mistaken. They’re looking for any excuse to justify putting me down.”

“Pretty sure you’ve already justified them fifty times over,” Chris mutters, but as Peter opens his mouth to loudly protest, Chris shakes his head. “I wasn’t planning on telling them it was him. You. We already have someone to pin it on.”

The bell dings. “Ah. The ghouls.”

“Easy enough to say we missed one. And it didn’t miss him.”

“And it’s body?”

Chris shrugs carelessly. “We caught it somewhere else. Burned it with the rest. They won’t care about details, not for him. They’ll be happy with the lie, as long as we don’t make it so obvious they have to question it to save face.”

That’s…surprising. And a point he’ll press for more on at a later date. But not right now, not with the smell of Gerard’s offal in his nose. “Alright, fine. Go make your phone call.” He waves Chris toward the door.

Chris hesitates, then shakes his head. “I need a minute. I need a minute with him.”

Peter narrows his eyes, on the cusp of grabbing Argent’s arm and dragging him out by force if necessary, when Chris holds up a beseeching hand.

“Peter, please. He was my _father_.”

As far as Peter is concerned, Gerard gave up the right to that title long before he murdered Peter’s family by proxy, but he acquiesces, if a little less than gracefully. “Fine. But don’t make me come back and drag you out by your ear.”

“Yes, mom,” Chris snarks back, but absently. His mind is already somewhere else, and as Peter slips out the door he sees him walk slowly to the bed and sit gingerly on the cleanest edge of the comforter.

He passes the washroom on the way to the kitchen, and through the open door he sees his younger self sitting on the sink as young Christopher uses a wash cloth to carefully wipe the blood away from his face and neck and arms. His touch is gentle, and while Peter avoids his eyes, looks down at his hands interlocked in his lap, Chris doesn’t take his eyes off him, not once. 

He supposes someone on the outside might find it strange that young Chris is so apparently unconcerned by the death of his father, a man Peter knows he loved just as much as he might have hated him, that he is more interested in the wellbeing of the boy that had murdered - no, _butchered_ \- him. That he is looking at him like he is Chris’ own personal angel, the absolute center of his entire world. 

If asked, Peter would tell them that this is only because they know nothing of Chris Argent, and even less of the boy he had been. To Peter, everything about this makes perfect sense.

For a boy like Chris - who had had to fight for every drop of affection from his father, for every smidgen of kindness; who had found fists and curses, and - possibly worse - cold disappointment, dealt out far more often than arms around shoulders and approving smiles… For a boy like that, to have someone do something of this magnitude _just for him_ , to do it freely and with no ulterior motive, to have a person cross that line to protect him, to have that someone be the boy he loves and who loves him back…

Well, that’s a powerful thing.

It’s harder for Argent. He’s had years and years of healthy relationships, of family that he loves and who love him properly. Of friends who go out for dinner and drinks and come to each others aid for the sake of friendship alone. With the whole of retrospect in front of him, the fact that Peter would murder someone is probably something less than underwhelming. The death of his father and the mixed emotions that accompany that are far, far more pressing. More complicated.

But for young Christopher, and his muddled up brain, things are probably crystal clear for the very first time.

Peter shudders as he rummages through cabinets until he comes up with a tumbler and whiskey and pours two fingers worth to take back to Argent, pretending his gaze doesn’t keep sliding back to the washroom and the way Chris is now tenderly cupping young Peter’s face and speaking softly to him. The way Peter is nodding and finally looking at him and the heady, adoring expression on his face as he tangles now clean fingers in Chris’ hair and says something just as quietly back.

Perhaps it’s a good thing someone stole all these memories.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Chris raises his hand and waits until Mrs. Bellamy calls on him. “Can I go to the bathroom?”

“Yes, Mr. Armbruster, but hurry. And don’t forget the pass.”

He smiles congenially as he obeys, and as soon as he’s out of the room he drops the pass in a trashcan and hurries down the hall to Peter’s classroom. He peeks in the glass - Peter’s head is down, a lock of hair falling into his eyes as he stares blindly at the paper in front of him. Chris would bet he’s not actually seeing a single word.

Chris catches a kid’s eye and points to Peter. That kid nudges another kid, who nudges another, until they finally find someone close enough to Peter to get his attention without alerting the teacher. Chris motions for him to come out, and steadfastly ignores Stilinski’s suspicious glare as he waits for Peter to raise his hand and get permission to be excused. Stilinski won’t rat them out, not about this. At least not until enough time has passed. Isaac had assured him of that fact.

But soon enough he stops worrying about Stilinski, because Peter is out the door, and Chris corners him by the lockers, hands balled up at his side and shifting nervously from foot to foot.

“What’s going on?” Peter asks. He’s pale and there are dark circles under his eyes, evidence of the number of times he’d woken last night from some nightmare or the other, shaking and lurching and one time scrambling out of Chris’ arms to go cower in a corner until Chris could talk him down and convince him it had just been a dream.

He keeps telling Chris he’s fine, but that’s just as much of a lie as when Chris has told him the same. Neither of them are fine, and sooner or later Chris is going to have to squarely look at the fact that his father is _dead_ , but that’s not gonna be today. He’s got Peter, and Peter’s got him, and he’d woken up this morning and realized nothing else was more important. Not even his pretentious, well meaning intentions.

Peter’s face is getting a pinched, worried look, which makes Chris realize he’s been standing there, staring at him without speaking for who knows how long.

“You were right,” he says abruptly. “It doesn’t matter. It’s just some stupid arbitrary line. It doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter as much as…as this.” He motions between the two of them, aggravated he can’t find the words. He’s never been good at finding the words.

“Chris, what are you—”

“I just— I thought if I could just make it _perfect_ I could make up for being an idiot and wasting so much time and you would really…you would really _get_ — But I was wrong. I was wrong and I was stupid and I don’t want to be stupid anymore.”

Peter still doesn’t get it, because he hisses back, low and irritated, “You are not _stupid_. Stop calling yourself stupid, you idiot!”

Chris shakes his head and takes a step closer. “I don’t want to wait anymore. I don’t want to wait for the cabins and I don’t want to wait until we get back. All we’ve ever done is wait. All I’ve ever done is make you wait. I wanted to prove to you—” He’s talking too much and the words are getting jumbled again. He cuts them off and reins them back in and just says it as plainly as possible.

“I found a motel. Wanna come pretend it’s the backseat of my car?”

* * * * * * * * * * * * *


	21. Chapter 21

Chris stares at the room. “I’m sorry. I wish it was nicer. Isaac told me he used to come here when his dad was really bad and they took cash and didn’t ask for ID, and I should have asked more questions—”

Peter gives him a half smile as he slips inside and closes the door. He walks through the room, spinning slowly as he takes it in. “It’s alright.” He flips back the threadbare comforter on the bed and says with some satisfaction. “And the sheets look clean.”

Chris scowls and crosses his arms moodily. “It’s not alright.” It’s not, it really isn’t, from the cracked wallpaper to the water stained carpet to the small table wobbling on uneven legs. _He’s_ used to rooms like this, has stayed in worse when he’s traveled for hunts with Gerard, but the Hales have _class_ , and Peter has more taste in his little pinky than Chris will ever have, even if Chris will never stop giving him hell for how fucking picky he can be. This has to be revolting, the smell of everything that’s been done in this room, the layers and layers of strangers that have fucked and fought and killed here, the little things that human eyes could miss with a half ass cleaning job but Peter can easily see with his. He’d wanted to do better than this.

“You deserve better. I wanted to do —”

Peter spins around and glares at him, hands on hips. “You’re right, the room’s gross. But I don’t care right now, and I’m pretty sure I’m the only person who gets to decide what I deserve. And what _I_ deserve is for you to get your ass over here and start putting your hands on me. Got it? Remember that whole you’re done waiting bit? Let’s go back to that.”

He raises an eyebrow and starts tapping his foot, every bit the haughty Hale Chris had first met in 8th grade, and the tension breaks in Chris.

“Yeah,” he says, a slow, easy smile spreading over his face as he walk over to Peter and drops his book bag at the foot of the bed beside them. “I got it. I can do that.”

Peter’s lips aren’t smooth, or moist or any of the other words people always use to describe mouths, but neither are Chris’. They’re chapped and rough, and peeling a bit from where they’re both dehydrated from all the stupid crying they’ve been doing, but he’s determined to not think of that now. He’d much rather think about Peter’s lips and how they’re perfect, perfect, perfect, no matter how chewed or broken they are, or how they catch against the own imperfections of his lips. 

He slides his mouth back and forth over Peter’s. Light, careful, almost chaste. Trying to tease, trying to draw it out. Because he only wants to think of this, only wants to remember this. Wants Peter to forget entirely about the shoddy room, about the shit of the last few days. About every bad and horrible thing that’s happened since they’ve got here and the world had come crashing down.

Things would be so much easier if it were always just he and Peter, if they could make everything and everyone else disappear. And here, for just a little while, they can.

Peter’s lips part beneath his, just as slow, just as careful, and Chris closes his eyes. Lets himself just _feel_ , because he wants to remember everything about this. Every single touch, every single sound, every single sensation. He’s going to imprint this on his memory, under the label ‘The Very First Time I Fucked Peter Hale.’

The thought, as it flits through his mind, is so concrete, so ridiculous, and so out of place, that he unexpectedly giggles against Peter’s lips, despite there being nothing funny about this at all. And _fuck_ he’s managed to piss Peter off, who steps back with a scowl and something tight in his eyes that almost looks like hurt.

Fuck.

Fuck.

_Fuck_.

He darts a hand out and pulls Peter back by the wrist, and Peter lets him, which means he can’t be _too_ pissed. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. It wasn’t— There wasn’t anything funny. I don’t know why I laughed.”

“Are you sure?” Peter’s eyebrows are raised and his mouth is pressed together in a thin, condescending line. “Because you seemed pretty amused. Did you laugh at all the girls you slept with, too? I’m sure they just loved that. I’m surprised you kept finding ones to go out with. Maybe I should go wait in the lobby until you get over your _laughing fit_.”

“This place doesn’t even have a—” Then he stops, because outside of actual fights, Peter really only gets this sharp and biting with Chris when it’s the full moon. Or when he’s feeling particularly insecure.

It’s a reminder that Peter has never done this before, and for all intents and purposes, neither has Chris. Because no matter how many girls he’s fucked, it’s never been Peter, and the mechanics aren’t going to be the same. But mechanics aside, he’s still standing in a different place than Peter, and just because Peter always acts like the more confident of the two, it doesn’t make it true. Sometimes it’s just that. An act.

“I’m sorry,” he says again, trying to sooth Peter by sliding his hands along his sides, up underneath his shirt. “I was just thinking about how I wanted to remember every detail of this, and then I started thinking about how I have the boxes in my head, and that made me think of what I would label this one and then I started—”

Peter shuts him up with a hard kiss, working his hands beneath Chris’ shirt at the same time. “You’re such a freak,” he says loftily, but the tightness is gone from around his eyes and his hands are dancing light over Chris’ ribs. “I don’t know how you ever pass for popular. Besides,” he grins, “it would _obviously_ be labeled ‘The Very Best Night of My Life.’”

Chris laughs, and so does Peter, and then the laughter dies away and Chris says, soft and serious, “It will, though. Be labeled that. You’re the very best everything I’ve ever had. You always will be.”

“Well,” Peter goes for nonchalant but falls way short. “Just as long as you recognize it.”

“I do. I do.” He nuzzles into Peter’s neck, hands working higher and higher as he drags the hem of his t-shirt with him, and tries to remember everything he’d planned when he thought this out. But it’s all getting fuzzy and lost in teenage hormones and Peter’s quickening breath and Chris finally nips, sharp and light, at the tendon on Peter’s neck before stepping back just enough to tug Peter’s shirt over his head.

Peter does the same to him without hesitation, and everything hangs there, for just a moment, as they stare at each other and breathe each other’s air, and then Peter is scrambling onto the bed, backing up until he’s propped against the headboard with his legs lazily sprawled open and the color high on his cheeks.

Chris knows with surety that he’ll love whatever the man Peter becomes, but right now he can’t imagine Peter any better than this: slim and pale and nervous and wanting. Chris swallows hard, kicks off his shoes, and crawls into the bed after him.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Chris stands at the end of the bed for what feels like forever, pink staining his chest as it rises and falls unsteadily. It’s long enough that Peter’s nerves almost get the best of him, which is just stupid, because this is _Chris_ , and if there’s anyone he doesn’t have to be nervous with, it’s him. Not to mention they’ve been way more naked than this together, dozens of times. But that doesn’t do anything to stop his skyrocketing heartbeat or his sweaty palms or the fact he knows this time, out of all the dozens, is different, because this time it won’t just stop with handjobs or blowjobs.

This time there’s _intent_.

Chris swallows once and toes his shoes off, and then _finally_ gets on the bed - the dingy, Clorox smelling, rough sheeted bed that is still somehow the safest thing in the room - only to stop almost at once, on his knees at Peter’s feet. He tugs off Peter’s shoes, one by one, with a carefulness that would startle anyone who doesn’t really know him, who has never seen him with Katie or in an unguarded moment. Tugs them off with a gentleness that would have surprised Peter at one time, before he had found a way to burrow under Chris’ shell and into the soft underbelly beneath.

But as much as Peter preens that he’s the only person who truly knows this side of Chris, all this carefulness and all this gentleness is making him nervous, making him worry Chris is still so concerned about proving something that he’s going to treat him like he’s made of glass. But he isn’t made of glass, and he doesn’t want Chris to be careful. Not here, not now, not after everything that’s happened. He needs Chris to remind him he’s real, he’s solid, he’s _Peter_. Not the Peter who tore another human being to shreds yesterday - Peter can still feel the tear of flesh under his nails, can still taste the drops of Gerard’s blood as they’d splashed over his lips, can still hear _Once will never be enough_ echoing in his ears - and not the Peter who’s grown and cold and capable of murdering dozens more. Not those Peters, but _Chris’_ Peter.

He needs to be anchored back to ground, and the intensity in Chris’ eyes is suddenly too much. Makes him feel peeled back and overexposed and it’s part good and part bad and in his confusion he becomes thoughtless.

“Are we fucking or what?” he spits out. “You know I’m not one of your girls, right?” Which is so _stupid_ , right on the heels of his earlier commentary, and makes absolutely no real sense except in his own head. And he immediately regrets it because the light winks out of Chris’ face and the room somehow feels colder. 

“Of course I do. We wouldn’t be here if you were.” But Chris puts his foot back onto the bed and makes his way up Peter’s body.

Only that’s wrong, too, because Chris’ expression is shuddered to Peter in a way it hasn’t been in months, and his eyes are dull as he leans down toward Peter’s lips. The kiss is mechanical, absent, nothing like the way Chris has ever kissed him before and that’s even worse than the antsy feeling crawling through Peter’s bones. He jerks his head back to see Chris’ face.

“Christopher?”

“Why is it bad?” Chris bursts out almost before Peter finishes saying his name, and the unreadable mask is gone and replaced with honest confusion and anger and hurt. And this…this Peter can deal with. He relaxes against the pillow as the words spill from Chris. “Why is it so bad that I want to treat this like it’s important? Like you’re important? Like this is something that means something? Why is that so terrible to you?”

And that’s when it all comes down on Peter, when all the glass fragments finally come together and form a picture that makes some kind of sense. “Because I don’t need to be on a pedestal! Because if I’m on one, I’m eventually gonna fall off! It could be right now! I could be a shit lay and you’ve built up all this expectation! Or one day I fuck up and you realize I never belonged there, that I’m actually _not_ your manic pixie girl, and you’ll be disappointed! I’m not some sacred thing! I’m a werewolf and usually an asshole, and I’m just…just _me_. I don’t want you to idealize me because there’s no way I can live up—”

“Manic pixie girl? What the fuck is a manic pixie— And why do you keep comparing yourself to a freaking girl? I _like_ that you’re a boy, remember?” Chris crouches over Peter and pins his shoulders to the bed with calloused, long fingered hands. “Petie, you act like I just met you. That I don’t know you. We’ve been best friends for four years, dumbass! Before I even knew I wanted your dick! You’ve vomited on me. I was there when Stilinski spiked your soda with Ex-Lax and you almost shit your pants.”

“You jerk! You promised we’d never bring that up --!”

“Shut up! I’ve seen you make people cry and watched you spit in Michael Fillion’s mashed potatoes when he got picked for All State instead of you. Not to mention I spent a good hour yesterday washing my dad’s _blood_ off of you! I’m pretty sure I know exactly who you are, okay? You’re a self-centered, egotistical, snot who thinks he’s better than 95% of the world. Who is one of the monsters I’m supposed to hunt and the smartest person I know and my best friend. I know who you are! And I love you, you douche! Even if you _do_ turn out to be him, I’ll _still_ love you! Got it?”

Chris’ face is red and he’s breathing hard and his hands shake as he pushes Peter further into the mattress as if to emphasis his words. Peter nods, eyes wide and unblinking, and Chris’ fingers curl in and dig into his shoulder blades, just this side of painful.

“I know you! So fuck your insecurities, okay? I’m gonna touch every inch of skin I possibly can and I’m gonna figure out all the places that make you shiver and I’m gonna fuck you like you’re the most important thing in the whole world because you _are_. And because I want you, and I want to, and I’m pretty fucking sure you actually want me to, too! Is that okay with you?”

Peter nods loosely, not sure he’d actually caught every single word of Chris’ rant, or that he felt ranted at at all. Because whenever Chris talks like that, gives voice to all the things Peter for so long believed he’d only get in furtive, unspoken fantasies, Peter’s brain tends to shut down, turn to mush, operate only to the beat of _Chris, Chris, Chris_. He’s so turned on it hurts, and his hips twist restlessly against the threadbare comforter, seeking some kind of friction. 

“Yeah,” he says, wetting his bottom lip with his tongue and nodding again.

Chris seems taken aback at the lack of argument, his eyebrows shooting up, but he gets with the program quick enough, and grins, sharp and pleased. “Good.”

He dips back down and kisses Peter, and this time it’s deep and wet and real. Peter surges up into him and Chris whimpers, or Peter whimpers, or it’s the both of them making noises, and still they don’t stop. They keep kissing as Chris’ hands go to Peter’s belt buckle and then to the snap of his jeans and then to his zipper. Peter lifts his hips helpfully as Chris skims his pants and boxers down in one go, nothing slow and subtle, and then catches them with his feet to finish kicking them off his legs and then off the bed all together.

The roughness of Chris’ jeans, as he settles between the soft skin of Peter’s thighs makes him arch again, and the pressure against his dick is just… _ahhh_! Chris agrees, if the way his eyes fall shut is any indication, and Peter flexes his hands against the small of his back, just to feel the flesh give.

Chris’ eyes flash open.

“God,” he whispers, his eyelids heavy and his pupils blown, and his voice gone raspy and dark. The look is still there, like Peter is Christmas and Easter and New Release Day at Blockbuster, but it doesn’t bother Peter this time. He knows he’s looking at Chris the same way.

“Kind of kinky,” he half smirks, “but if you want to call me that, I guess I can deal.”

Chris rolls his eyes and then his hips and does his own smirking as Peter’s breath catches hard in his throat.

“There should be more nakedness, don’t you think?” Peter emphasizes his words with a hand down the back of Chris’ pants, and Chris nods solemnly.

“I do think.” He makes good on that by rising up enough so that Peter can slide his hand around his hip and to his front and undo the snap and zipper on his pants. Chris doesn’t take his eyes from him the entire time, and Peter doesn’t drop his gaze, either. The need to hide from that look has evaporated and now he just wants to _bask_. He pushes Chris’ jeans down until his reach is exhausted and then lets Chris take over. Spreads his legs shamelessly farther apart so that when Chris bears down again its all skin against skin and dick against dick.

Chris’ mouth drops open in a small, almost soundless gasp and his eyes close completely for half a second.

“Better?” Peter asks, only it’s more of a statement of fact than a question, because this is damn sure better than layers of clothes between them.

“Better,” Chris nods. “We should do this more often.”

Peter’s about to say the rareness hasn’t been for lack of trying on his part, but before he can, Chris’ eyes sharpen and refocus again, with a predatory hunger that would have his own family hunting him if they hadn’t already known he was human.

He ducks down and runs his nose up Peter’s jaw to his ear, sets his teeth in the lobe in more of the promise of a bite than an actual nip, and murmurs low.

“I’m gonna make you feel good, Peter Hale.” It should be cheesy, but Chris’ voice is steady and completely sincere and that somehow elevates it to the level of porn. Peter closes his eyes and lets everything fall away but Chris. Lets his hands work restless across his back as Chris’ mouth travels across his throat and his shoulders, leaving small, already fading bruises to mark his passage.

Then his hands are on Chris’ shoulders and Chris’ mouth is at his hip and his tongue is tracing light, so light, right along the bone and Peter has to push up on his elbows to see. When he looks down, Chris is looking up, half slung over Peter’s right leg, his palm braced into the mattress beside his left hip and his other hand curled possessively around Peter’s thigh. Chris’ long, pale lashes flutter, alternately revealing and concealing sea green eyes and a teasing, wanting smile is hidden right at the corner of his lips.

Peter wants to whine at the heat of it, wants to beg and writhe and flip Chris over and and make him _get on with it_. But he also wants to gasp and flail and hope that Chris never ever stops. He settles somewhere in between. “You’re so stupidly hot. Can you be stupidly hot and suck my dick?”

Chris barks out a laugh and slithers over until he’s back between Peter’s legs. “Since you asked so politely. You Hale’s and your manners.”

He pauses for a long minute over Peter’s cock, eyes roving over it has he slides his hand between it and Peter’s stomach and slicks his bottom lip with his tongue. Finally his eyes shoot back to Peter’s and he says, with total sincerity, “I really love sucking your dick.”

Peter’s head drops back to the pillow when Chris takes him into his mouth, delicious sensation washing over him as Chris teases just at the tip, slides his tongue through his slit, and then opens wide to let him slip to the back of his throat.

“I’m so glad you figured out you weren’t straight,” he breathes like a prayer. 

It’s not completely true, he thinks hazily, in between arching hips and twisting shoulders and hands falling down to furrow through Chris’ curls. He still thinks of Chris as more straight than not; dating Peter has not brought about any gay revolution for Chris as far as Peter can see, no sliding glances at other boys, no sly remarks about men on magazine covers or movie screens. The wide-eyed stares at tits on TV are still going strong, and maybe that should worry Peter or make him insecure…maybe _would_ worry Peter or make him insecure, except for the fact he knows Chris inside out, had known even before Chris’ mouth had touched his that ogling had never equaled interest for Christopher. Never equaled anything close to steady want.

“ _Ahh!_ ” All thought flies from his head as Chris lets his dick pop free from his mouth and instead noses under it to find his balls. He’s dripping from Chris’ spit, wet and slick and when Chris takes one sac fully into his mouth pre-cum spurts messy onto his stomach. Chris hums happily, the vibration making Peter’s toes curl. Then Chris drags a finger through the viscous drops on Peter’s stomach and sucks it into his mouth right along with Peter’s ball and Peter scrambles to think of things unpleasant enough to keep from coming right then and there.

Not that he’s adverse to coming. And his body would really like to get there _right now_. Only he’d overheard a snatch of conversation between Danny and Isaac where Danny had shaken his head and said “You don’t wanna come before he’s inside you; you’ll be too sensitive and it’ll hurt.” And while Peter doesn’t know anything about that, he’s pretty sure Danny has more experience in that area than he or Chris combined, so he plans to take that second hand advice to heart.

“Chris. Chris! _Christopher_.” Peter tugs at Chris’ hair and finally he looks up, his eyes unfocused and woozy and his lips shiny. Peter preens, just a little, that sucking his dick has made Chris look _high_. High has always looked good on Chris.

“Hmm?” Chris keeps his eyes on Peter as he slides his tongue across his hip bone, but Peter can tell by the way he’s slowly drifting back toward his dick that he’s far more interested in getting Peter back in his mouth than actually listening. Peter shivers and twists but stays doggedly focused.

“I don’t wanna…I don’t wanna…” He twists a hand in Chris’ hair and tugs hard, forcing Chris’ head up and back. Chris’ mouth drops open and his pupils dilate so fast his irises almost disappear between one blink and the next. Peter doesn’t know exactly what it means but want burns hot and low in his gut and his words punch out of him in broken gasps.

“Don’t— don’t make me— Not yet. Not before—”

He’s not making any sense, but Chris gets it anyway, nodding and turning his head so that his cheek rests on Peter’s stomach. Peter’s fingers loosen, turn from clutching to petting, and he can feel Chris’ grin against his skin.

“Okay. Okay.” Chris fumbles with one hand for his backpack, opening it by touch rather than sight. “But I’m still gonna…I need to…” Chris pushes back into Peter’s hand for half a second before looking up, face gone predatory again. “I _want_ to taste you. All of you.” Before he completely processes that, Chris surges up and kisses him, tube of lube held triumphantly in one hand. Then he pulls back so that his lips just brush Peter’s as he repeats firmly, “All of you.” And then softer, this time against Peter’s neck, as Peter’s brain again begins its slow decay back to mush, “All of you.”

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Peter is all angles and elbows and ribs and Chris might die, might actually _die_ from the spikes of pleasure that shoot down his spine and straight to his dick with every sharp gasp Peter makes as Chris moves from his neck to his clavicle to his shoulder. Peter’s shoulders are covered with freckles. Fairy kisses, Chris’ mom had called them, but Chris rejects that because he doesn’t like the idea of any mouth but his touching Peter’s skin, mythical or otherwise. 

He suddenly has an unwelcome flashback to a smoky room, and loud, pulsing music, and a stranger with curling blond hair pushing Peter’s shirt to the side to mouth along his shoulder. Chris grits his teeth and shoves the image away, then bites a shade too hard into the curve of Peter’s neck.

“Mine.”

Peter’s breath hitches.

“Mine.”

He noses Peter’s head to the side so that his neck is laid bare, and Peter lets him, goes easily as the air punches harder from his lungs.

“Mine.”

Peter’s next breath is closer to a sob, closer to that sound he’d made in the supply closet when Chris had been angry and hurt and struggling to figure out how to make Peter _believe_ him. Chris’ hands shake as he smooths them down Peter’s sides, as he tries not to get swallowed by the magnitude of all that is _them_ , all that is Peter and Chris and the things they have done for each other and the trust they have in each other and how much he really, really, really just wants to fuck Peter _right now_.

He buries his face in Peter’s hair. “Minemineminemineminemine _mine_. Oh, God, Petie, turn over. Please turn over. I need more. I gotta have more. Please tell me you want more.”

Peter’s entire face and chest are flushed, breath just as ragged as Chris’. “When haven’t I wanted more?” It almost sounds pained, the question, and the knee jerk apology nearly bubbles out before Chris catches it. Peter doesn’t want it, doesn’t need it, will only get pissed off at it, and that’s the _last_ thing Chris wants. Instead, he sits back on his heels as Peter pushes to his elbows and starts to flip over. Then, so quickly that Chris is caught off guard, Peter changes directions. He shoots to his knees and catches Chris by the back of the neck, pressing their foreheads together for half a second before pulling back so that Chris can focus on his face.

“Mine.” The word is slurred, because there is fang, and Peter’s eyes are full shifted. In that moment - in that tiny, fragmented, crystal clear moment - Chris can see them all: his Peter, sarcastic and blunt and vulnerable and perfect. The Peter of this future, cruel and angry and just this side of insane. And the Peter of yesterday, vicious and out of control and monstrous.

He can see them all, and they’re all his Peter, and he doesn’t feel afraid of any of them. He catches Peter’s neck, too, and presses their foreheads back together again, and runs the tip of his tongue carefully over Peter’s fangs. “Yes. Forever. Now turn the fuck over so I can put my mouth on your ass.”

Peter freezes and then his entire body convulses as laughter peals uncontrollably out of him. They collapse against each other, their snickers filling the air. It’s loud and cacophonous and easy, and finally Peter draws a deep breath and releases one final giggle. “You’re such an ass, Christopher.”

Chris nods agreeably. “Yeah. But I’m really trying hard to get to yours, in case you haven’t noticed.”

Peter rolls his eyes and mock punches his shoulder, then flops gracelessly onto his stomach. “All yours.”

At first all Chris can do is stare at the long, lean, pale expanse Peter has offered up. “Oh, thank God.”

“Thank Peter,” comes the muffled rejoinder, and in retaliation Chris takes his time kissing each nob of Peter’s spine as he travels down his body. Peter is moving restlessly by the time Chris settles between his legs, tiny noises filtering back to Chris in spite of his face buried in the pillow.

Peter has freckles on his ass, too, and some days Chris likes to tease him about them. Not today, though. Today there’s just hunger and the swell of his cheeks under Chris’ palms and then Chris props his hips up with a pillow until he’s finally spread and exposed and exactly how Chris’ has fantasized about for months.

“Jesus, Petie,” he murmurs. Peter is tense and trembling, but when Chris draws a finger between his cheeks, he moans and pushes into it, so Chris knows it’s nerves and not objection. And nerves…well, Chris can fix that.

Peter’s ass twitches as Chris’ breath ghosts across his hole. “You make me feel so good, Petie.” He’s glad Peter can’t see his blush as he pushes past his forever fear of sounding stupid. “Even before…before this, you were everything. You made me feel real. I wanna give that back to you. I just wanna make you feel good, too.”

“You know you do, Christo — _ngggh_.” Peter’s words strangle off as Chris makes good on all his promises and lets his tongue follow the path his fingers had taken.

It’s different than the girls he’s gone down on, not that he’d thought it’d be the same. Tastes different, feels different. Tighter. Better. Makes Peter a mess. By the time Chris works his tongue in, he’s writhing and babbling and pushing up on his elbows. Soft and wet so that when Chris cautiously pushes the tip of one well lubed finger in alongside, Peter grunts and stills and then sighs out a long _fuuuuuuuck_ before bearing down and rocking back and it all makes Chris’ dick _ache_. Making Peter fall apart…It feels like Chris was created just for this. Not to hunt, not to kill, not to be a soldier in a supernatural war. Just this. Only this.

“Okay?” He’s working another finger in, and Peter is all shallow pants and tiny grunts. Peter mumbles out an affirmative _uh huh_ , his head hanging between his arms and strands of hair sticking to his cheeks, and Chris pushes up on his palm, resting his cheek on the small of Peter’s back as he begins stretching him open in earnest. 

It’s maybe hours, maybe minutes - Chris is caught in a web of want and need and slightly cramped wrists and the concept of time has slid sideways - and then Peter is pushing higher on his knees. “Now,” he punches out, as Chris’ fingers curl and twist and brush something that makes Peter bite his lip and whimpers. “I think now is good. I’m good, Christopher. No more teasing.”

Chris neither protests his innocence nor gasps _oh thank God_ , but instead does exactly as Peter commands. More lube, a press of lips against Peter’s neck, and then the blunt tip of his cock is pushing into Peter.

_Yes. Oh my fucking god. Finally. Peter. Perfect. Fuck. Peter. Fuckfuckfuck. Peter_. Those are the order of thoughts as they sprint through Chris’ brain when the first ring of muscles gives. Peter’s so tight. Tighter than he’d expected, even having felt him squeeze his fingers in a strangle hold. It’s warm, and the lube makes it wet, and it’s _Peter_. The feeling spreading to the tips of his fingers is similar to the one he’d felt the first time he’d kissed Peter. The one he’d felt the first time he’d gone to his knees for Peter and the first time Peter had done the same for him. A feeling of wonder and disbelief and the privilege of touching a miracle. A feeling bigger and more grown up than he can properly conceptualize. Too large. Too abstract. A feeling both separate from and yet somehow still integrally entwined with the want and desire that comes nipping right at its heels.

“ _Petie_ ,” is what finally makes it out of his mouth, though, his voice embarrassingly broken and strained, and his fingers curl bruisingly tight around Peter’s hip in his effort to contain everything swirling around inside him. He stays still as long as he can, trying to give Peter time to adjust, trying not to come in two seconds flat. That last one is a real possibility, and he might just die of embarrassment if he can’t manage better than that.

“Hand…dick…move…swear to God!” Peter’s voice is garbled code, but it’s luckily a code Chris has no problem deciphering. He wraps a hand around Peter’s dick, pushes everything but this exact moment out of his mind, and snaps his hips.

Peter slaps a hand against the headboard with a hoarse shout the first time Chris strips his dick in time with the thrust of his hips. The second time he drops his head and digs his fingers into Chris’ thigh and Chris knows he’ll have bruises. Peter’s cock is hard and leaking in between his fingers, but Chris falters, unsure.

“Is it too much? Am I hur—” His voice cracks when Peter glares savagely at him over his shoulder and rocks back with enough force that Chris almost loses his balance.

“I will _kill_ you, Christopher Argent. _Kill_.”

Hand to God, Chris does not know when he started finding Peter’s bitchiness a turn on, but there it is. He nods and runs a thumbnail through Peter’s slit, watching in satisfaction as Peter’s face goes slack with pleasure. It might have been torturous for the both of them, but all those months of learning each other’s bodies makes it so Chris knows just which flick of the wrist will push Peter over the edge.

He doesn’t last long. It’s impossible, with this so new and Peter clenching hard with every thrust. And that doesn’t even account for the noises, for the curses and whimpers and moans that Peter rewards him with. This…this is why they’d been right to wait for privacy. Why they’d needed a place for them alone. No one but Chris has the right to all the delicious noises spilling from Peter’s mouth. No one but Peter has the right to all fumbling praise falling from Chris’. 

Heat is tumbling, gathering, growing. Low in his belly, and deep at the base of his spine. Peter is arching, twisting, trembling. On the edge but not quite over. Chris mouths his spine, his neck, the shell of his ear. “Peter,” he gasps, his hips beginning to stutter out of time. “I want you to come with me. I want you to come with me. Please. I want to feel— Tell me what--” Then Peter’s hand joins his, squeezing his grip just a shade tighter and speeding his pace just a shade faster. The sound of their bodies becomes loud in the silence and just when Chris knows he can’t hold out a second longer, Peter clenches so tight a sharp spike of pleasure shoots down his spine.

He shouts out an unintelligible combination of curses as he comes, ending on “Peter, Jesus, Petie,” and barely manages to hold himself up as Peter spills hot over his fingers. He feels wrung out and drugged out and stupidly happy and he peppers Peter’s shaking shoulders with kisses as he waits for him to come down.

Peter turns his head blindly, finding his chin, his cheek, his neck, and then winces as Chris pulls out. Chris winces, too, but makes up for the loss of warmth by rolling onto his back and then tugging Peter to sprawl on top of him. He rakes his fingers through sweaty hair and Peter draws aimless patterns on his chest. 

It’s another moment before he recovers enough to speak. “Are you okay?” He licks his lips nervously. “Did I do okay?”

Peter lifts his head, not doing anything to hide his dopey grin, and Chris feels a matching one spreading across his face. “I’m good. I’m great. And I’m not about to give you an even bigger ego. But yeah, let’s do that again.”

They’re sweaty and sticky and the room is still subpar, but Peter is curled on top of Chris, and Chris’ arms are wrapped around him, and the whole entire world has disappeared to white noise. 

This…this is their perfection. And no one can steal it ever again.


	22. Chapter 22

Somewhere in the bathroom a faucet is dripping. A slow, steady, plink, plink, plink that’s just further testament to the dilapidation of the entire structure. Normally the repetitiveness would burrow under Peter’s skin, a piece of sand that would eventually irritate him to the point of explosion, a sound he can’t even tune out or ignore because of his heightened senses. But now he can barely be bothered to catalog it, is far too busy tracing Chris’ ribs to care.

Chris’ hands are combing slow through his hair, lulling him dangerously close to sleep, but Peter refuses to lose a single second of the day. Refuses to let slumber steal even a sliver away. And, more practically, they’re going to have to eventually move. He’d just assumed his accelerated healing would take care of any soreness, but either his genetics have made an exception for sex, or just don’t categorize it as injury. Either way, a large percentage of him aches, his hair is matted with sweat, and the two of them reek. Not to mention he’s _leaking_.

He’s never been happier in his life.

Regretfully he raises his head and moues petulantly. “Christopher—”

Chris squinches his nose and preempts him. “Shower?”

“Yes,” Peter affirms mournfully. “Although I’m not sure any shower in this place is going to get us _clean_. We might actually catch something.”

Chris shrugs. “Think we’ll have to risk it. Besides,” he buries his face in Peter’s hair, so his voice comes out muffled, “We’ve never gotten to shower together.”

“Well.” Peter brightens considerably. “It has been a day of firsts, hasn’t it. Come on.”

He grabs Chris’ hand and vaults to his feet and immediately regrets it. “Oh _shit_.” He collapses to his ass on the floor, then, remembering the floor, springs to his feet, then, with a whimper, flops back on the bed. Chris is frozen over him, hand half outstretched and eyes wide. But he’s also biting his lip and and his shoulders are shaking with suppressed laughter.

Peter extends his middle finger. “I hate you.”

Chris sits next to him and scritches his fingers soothingly over his scalp. “No, you don’t.”

Peter sighs in easy capitulation. “No, I really don’t.” He sits up gingerly and a tiny snicker slips from Chris. Underneath his concern, Peter is pretty sure that bastard looks smug. Peter glares and Chris widens his eyes innocently, a gesture he patently stole from Peter.

“I could carry you?” he suggests tentatively.

“Oh fuck you,” Peter hisses, then stiffly pushes himself to his feet. He refuses to wince as he walks carefully toward the bathroom. “I’m _fine_. Besides, I have every intention of us having sex _repeatedly_ today. My body will just have to deal.”

There’s no response.

“Chris?” Peter stops with one hand on the bathroom doorknob, and looks over his shoulder. Chris is standing, arrested, beside the bed, his eyes glazed and fixed firmly on Peter’s ass, and his dick half hard again.

Oh. Well. Peter smirks and crooks his finger. “Are you coming, or do I have to do this myself?”

Chris snaps back to attention, feet instantly in motion as he scoops the backpack from the floor along the way. “Coming. Definitely coming.” 

Despite his teasing, Chris’ hands are incredibly careful as he maneuvers Peter into the shower spray. The bathroom is just as dingy as he’d expected, but the water is hot and Chris’ smile is soft and with droplets of water clinging to his eyelashes in the billowing steam, he looks like a young god. Peter has won the jackpot.

He can’t stop the groan that escapes as the heat loosens the knots in his muscles. “I would like to thank God and Jesus and the plumber for this shower.”

“Hmm.” Chris uncaps the tiny, cheap bottle of shampoo. “I’d like to thank God and Jesus and your parents for your ass.”

“Ew, no, don’t bring up my family.” The aching knowledge of his family’s deaths threatens to intrude, but then Chris coaxes Peter to tilt his head back and starts working suds into his hair, and reality retreats once more. Hair washing turns to mutual groping, and Peter isn’t sure how they’re ever going to manage gym showers in decency again.

“When we have a house,” he says drowsily, as he slowly runs a washcloth down Chris’ spine, “we’re gonna have a huge bathroom. And a double headed shower.”

“With two hot water tanks.” Chris shivers as the water starts to run lukewarm and turns to face him. He cups Peter’s face, the corners of his eyes crinkling as he grins excitedly. “We’re gonna have a _house_ one day.”

“And a big kitchen,” Peter says dreamily. “And double walk in closets.”

“And a big, big bed.”

“Definitely a big bed.”

Chris leans in, but when their lips are a hairsbreadth apart, he makes a face. “Wait.” His top half disappears outside the shower curtain and then there’s the sound of half a dozen things clattering to the floor. Chris reappears with a travel size tub of toothpaste and two cheap, plastic toothbrushes. He passes one to Peter then scrubs at his own teeth with a vengeance.

Peter raises an eyebrow as he brushes and spits, then asks, “Where did you even get these? Where did you even get the lube?”

Chris shrugs. “Isaac. I texted him in 2nd. I guess he got Danny and Ethan to help?”

He shuts off the shower to save them from freezing their balls off. He has very specific plans for Chris’ balls. Not to mention his dick. “We should give him a medal. He’s a way better wingman than you ever were.”

“Hey!” Chris is all mock indignation as he grabs Peter around the neck and noogies his hair. Peter wraps his arms around his middle and kicks at his ankle and they play fight their way from the bathroom to the bed and by the time they get there they’re both breathing hard and fully hard and Peter’s healing has finally done its job.

They tumble down, landing face to face, and Chris tucks a strand of hair behind Peter’s ear. “Love you, Petie.”

“Love you, too, asshole.” He tugs Chris’ bottom lip between his teeth, then lets it go with a wet pop. “Wanna do it again?”

“Jesus, yes,” Chris says fervently, and rolls Peter beneath him.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * *

For the first time, Chris does not take the boys to school. Barely even looks up as Peter ushers them out the door.

Last night had been easier. Full of purpose. Get everyone home without alerting the neighbors. Hustle Peter Jr.into the shower. Call the cleaners. Spin a story. Decide which version to tell Allison. Tell Allison the truth. Close the door to his bedroom and collapse on the ground.

Chris likes purpose. Action. Likes how there are clear steps to follow that leave no room for introspection or emotion or thought. If point A goes to point B goes to point C, there’s no reason to worry about Islands 1, 2 and 3. It’s a soldier’s brain, he knows, but that’s what he was raised to, and it’s kept him sane as the world fell apart.

Last night had been easier.

Today he doesn’t know what he’s supposed to do.

There are things he could be doing. Things he _should_ be doing. There’s half a box more missing persons to go through. He could begin canvassing neighborhoods for overdue vacationers. Track down Jennifer and have another conversation. Track down _Deaton_ and drag him back. Figure out who has the power and skill to snatch his memories away ( _what had it felt like, what had it felt like? to openly walk the halls of Beacon Hills holding Peter’s hand? what had it felt like, what had it felt like? to sleep night after night wrapped around each other, without any fear? He can’t recall even a sensation and that bothers him more than it should_.)

Today he can’t make his brain focus, can’t make it obey, can’t find the energy to do more than stare blankly at a point in the wall some four feet above the floor.

Gerard is dead. Gerard is dead. Gerard is dead and Victoria is dead and Kate is dead. In three days time he’ll put on a suit and drive to the cemetery and eulogize his father in front of a crowd of strangers and colleagues. It will all be lies, of course. Glorious grief and a tragic loss, for a man who had nearly brought them all to ruins. But a son does what he must.

The door opens and closes again.

“I think your junior is plotting something.”

Chris snorts and pulls a knee to his chin. “They’ve already killed someone. I’m not sure what else they can do.”

“Technically, only one of them committed the murder,” Peter corrects. “Yours still has plenty of room to catch up. Are you planning on getting dressed?”

Chris looks down at his pajama pants and then back to the wall. He wonders if he should go ahead and purchase plots for he and Allison. With the number of deaths in Beacon Hills, it’s not inconceivable the cemetery will run out of space if he doesn’t. Allison will want them buried with family. He tugs his other leg up to join his first. “I don’t know.”

“Suit yourself.”

There’s an over sized clock with long, intricately carved arms that tracks time on the wall. Five minutes…ten minutes…somehow an hour passes with Peter rustling about somewhere in the background. He doesn’t know how the time escaped, he can’t quite catch the string of his thoughts. The clock hand moves another quarter of a turn and he remembers Vickie had a cousin living somewhere in Brisbane. Had he remembered to notify them of her passing?

A glass of water appears in front of him.

“Drink.”

The glass is attached to hand which is attached to an arm which he follows up to Peter’s face. He’s wearing an expression of bored exasperation as he waves the glass back and forth in Chris’ face and causes the ice to chink musically. “Drink,” he insists again.

Chris takes the water without protest. It’s discolored, cloudy rather than clear, and he frowns at it speculatively. “What’s in here?”

Peter plops down next to him with a huff. “I’m not poisoning anyone today, if that’s what you’re asking.”

Chris raises an eyebrow and Peter huffs again. “It’s electrolyte powder. Happy? Now _drink_.”

Chris does, Peter watching until he drains the entire glass, and then sets it on the floor. He wraps his arms around his knees and goes back to watching the wall. Peter gets up, only to return a few minutes later with a book. Chris can’t rouse the curiosity to glance at the title, but switches from hugging his knees to arranging his legs cross cross applesauce. He should check with the florist to make sure the flower arrangements are in order. Victoria had a much better eye for those things, but he thinks he’s done a respectable job in her absence.

“What’s your earliest memory of Gerard?” Peter asks suddenly. The question doesn’t seem strange, but it takes Chris a long time to answer, to sift through all his memories and realize the first of his father is a happy one. In the time it takes him to locate it, Peter disappears and reappears again, this time offering a plate of boiled eggs, halved and salted. Chris takes a bite and chews contemplatively.

“Apple picking in North Carolina. I couldn’t have been more than three or four. He carried me around on his shoulders so I could reach the apples.”

“You should tell that one at the funeral. Now eat.”

He does, and when he’s done, the plate joins the glass on the floor. He curls up in the corner of the couch, eyelids beginning to droop.

“Does it bother you? That you can’t remember killing him?”

“To an incredible degree. Does it bother you that young Christopher isn’t mourning at all?”

Chris shakes his head. “No.” The murder and the death are two separate things for his younger self, and Chris can mourn for the both of them.

He sleeps after that, and when he wakes the clock hands have moved another two hours. A blanket has been thrown over him, and Peter is trying to tiptoe out the door.

“What’s going on?”

Peter makes a face. “The school called. Predictably. Neither of them showed to their fifth period classes. Go back to sleep. I can handle it.”

“No…no, I want to go.” He struggles out of the blanket and climbs unsteadily to his feet, shaking off sleep. “You’ll need help tracking them down. Just give me two minutes to get dressed.”

Peter waves him off. “Their phones are still at school. See?” He holds up _Chris’_ phone, displaying the two blinking lights on the screen. “They’re in a closet somewhere playing tonsil hockey. I’ll drag them them back to class and be back in a jiffy. No need for a sidekick.”

“As if I’d ever be your sidekick,” Chris grumbles, then looks at Peter askance. “And how the hell did you get into my phone?”

Peter gives him an eloquent look. “You didn’t wake up this time. You don’t need to be conscious for your thumbprint to work. Maybe you should consider switching to a numerical code. And exactly how long have you had a tracker on my phone, Christopher?”

“I track everyone important to the pack,” he says dismissively, taking thirty seconds to fold the blanket rather than look at Peter. “And I’m still coming.” Having a task, something to do, even if it’s just tracking down two randy teenagers…the fog he’s been fighting finally clears away and the wall loses its interest. It’s accompanied by a sharp stab of grief, but he quickly boxes that away for a later date. Preferably when he’s alone.

“I’m glad you recognize my importance, Argent!” wafts in after him as he closes his bedroom door. He mutters under his breath, far too quiet for Peter to hear.

“Just like Typhoid Mary, Petie.”

He throws on jeans and a t-shirt and is back in the living room, boots in hand, in less than thirty seconds. Peter sniffs as he pulls them on.

“I hope you know speed isn’t always an advantage. I’d hate to think Victoria was stuck—”

Chris puts his hand over Peter’s mouth. “Stop.”

Surprisingly, Peter complies with barely an eye roll. “Fine. Let’s go.”

They don’t talk on the ride over, and Chris’ thoughts wend from the fact he’s probably going to sell the condo now, to wondering how long it will take them to figure out which closet or bleacher or empty room the juniors are in, to pondering whether or not enough time has passed that he and Allison can reopen the old house without memories overwhelming them. Beside him, Peter hums along with the radio and makes biting comments about the surrounding drivers.

It’s peaceful, in its own way, and Chris is almost content when they pull into the parking lot. That contentment lasts exactly as long as it takes for them to follow the steadily increasing beeps of Chris’ phone until they merge into one solid beep, exactly as long as it takes to find themselves at a row of lockers, staring not at their younger selves, but at the entire Scooby Gang (Chris internally winces when he realizes he’s adopted Peter’s term but quickly recovers to spread his glare across all of the teenagers.)

“Who has the phones?” He keeps his voice low, mindful of the mob of students milling about, waiting for the tardy bell to ring.

Isaac looks at Stiles who looks at Scott who looks at Allison. She shrugs, and Stiles reaches into his backpack. “Found them in the bathroom.” He hands the phones to Chris. “Right, Lydia?”

Lydia doesn’t bother looking up from where she’s picking imaginary lint off the front of Aiden’s shirt. “Right,” she confirms, in a supremely bored voice.

Chris looks at Peter, who gives a minute shake of his head. “You’re lying.”

Stiles shrugs again. “Serious as a heart attack, man. I went to piss and they were just sitting right there.”

The phones are wiped. Cloud, Google accounts, SIM cards…as virgin clean as when he’d bought them from the Verizon store. He turns a hard eye to Danny, bent over a textbook with Ethan and acting as if he has no clue they’re even there.

He turns to his daughter. “Allison? What’s going on?”

She hesitates, gnawing on her bottom lip, then shakes her head. “I don’t know where they are.” She sneers at Peter. “And that’s the truth.”

Peter’s face has been growing steadily darker, and for a split second Chris thinks he’s going to have to intervene, to pin Peter down to keep him from going after Allison. Then the bell rings and the spell is broken and Peter retreats to a small, enigmatic smile. None of them move as the halls clear; Chris finds himself pressing his shoulder to Peter’s, just in case, and studiously ignores the gaggle of teen eyes that narrow as he does. When the hall finally empties Peter sighs, low and seemingly sad, then spins with shark like intensity to Isaac, identifying him as the weakest member of the pack.

“Isaac,” he says silkily, “where did they go? Tell me fast enough, and you won’t have to regrow your spleen.”

But somewhere, somehow, Isaac has found a spine. He stares steadily back at Peter as he answers. “I. Don’t. Know.” His words are steely, but his Adam’s apple is bobbing and his fingers are twisting in his sweater, and Chris doesn’t need to look at Peter to know Isaac is lying. They’re _all_ lying. Every single one of them. And he doesn’t understand what has changed, why they’ve gone from being at each others throats to protecting what idiotic thing Peter and Chris’ younger selves have done. Especially as he’s sure Allison has filled them in on last night’s events.

The mystery doesn’t bother Peter, at least not visibly. He’s more interested in tearing the alliance apart. “Isaac.” His voice is deceptively pleasant. “I’ve heard you have a certain fondness for freezers—”

“You son of a—” Stiles may have said the words, but it’s Scott whose eyes flash red as he steps forward, Allison in lock step with him.

“Step back, Peter,” he growls, voice heavy with Alpha sway. As if Alphas had ever swayed Peter. 

Chris holds out a calming hand then turns his back to the teens, blocking them out as he crowds Peter’s space. “Peter,” he says, finding his wrist with his his hand and squeezing it lightly. “Not with our own. Save this for Jennifer.” He keeps his voice neutral, keeps any rebuke confined to his eyes. Peter will swing out of habit to save himself from humiliation.

The moment stretches out and Chris becomes aware of Peter’s pulse, racing beneath his thumb. Becomes aware of his own heartbeat, matching it in time. Peter doesn’t look away, and Chris is unwilling to flinch first, and he finds himself fighting the urge to drag his thumb across Peter’s wrist, to somehow try to soothe its thunderous speed.

A throat clears behind him, snapping him out of the daze. He clears his throat and turns, letting his hand fall, empty, to his side. Everyone, even the twins and Danny, are crowded around Isaac. Not just for protection…something in the way they’ve set him in the center makes him suddenly sure Isaac is the ringleader in this scheme. It makes sense; he’s the only person that had tried to befriend their younger selves from the very start.

“Isaac,” he says, “be reasonable. I know you think you’re helping them. I know they’re tired of twiddling their thumbs and waiting for us to fix this. I know they want to figure out how to get back to their time, and I know they think they’re capable. But there are things they don’t know - things none of _you_ know. Having them traipsing about on their own is endangering them. If you really want to help—”

He’s cut off by Isaac’s small cry of disbelief. “That’s what you think this is about? Mr. Argent!” Isaac shakes his head, his blond curls bouncing wildly. “Sometimes I think you forget we’re not soldiers!” Chris feels a stab of guilt low in his gut as Isaac continues. “That we’re not you! Sometimes we’re just teenagers!”

That’s when it clicks for Chris, when the mystery of why everyone other than Isaac would stick their necks out for the juniors is summarily solved. Maybe they hate he and Peter’s younger selves, maybe they don’t, but one thing hasn’t changed in the last 30 years. Teenagers will always support other teenagers doing stupid shit.

“What motel are they at?” he asks quietly. The slight widening of Isaac’s eyes gives him all the confirmation he needs. Even then, he’s not completely worried. He has to trust he knows himself, no matter the age. His teenaged self had had a plan, and it’s unlikely he’ll deviate from it. While he likes to think he’s gotten better with age, he can still be stupidly devoted to a course of action he’s decided is right.

Isaac stays silent, chewing on his lip and looking at his shoes. “Isaac…”

“He’s not going to tell you, Mr. Argent.” Lydia has her arms crossed over her chest and her foot is tap, tap, tapping impatiently. “And he’s definitely not telling _you_.” She scowls at Peter. “And he’s the only one of us who knows, so… We need to get to class. You wouldn’t want us neglecting our education, would you, Mr. Argent?”

Chris runs through the possibilities. There are dozens of hotels and motels within a bus ride away and they have no clue where to start. Isaac is standing firm, surrounded by pack who supports him, and it’s not like they can torture it out of him, Peter notwithstanding.

But…

It has to be a place that takes cash. Unless one of the pack fronted them a credit card. Which is definitely within the realm of possibility. He eyes the teens critically, lingering for a long moment on Allison. She meets his eyes without flinching, and raises one eyebrow. He’s going to be pissed if it turns out his _own_ card was used for this misadventure.

But no. Even with a credit card, they’d still have to show ID. Which they don’t have. And even if someone forged them a pair - he gives Danny a suspicious once over - they’re still too young to legally get a room. Unless someone upped their ostensible age.

All possible, he supposes, but is it _probable_? In the short amount of time this scheme had to have been hatched?

Peter leans in close, his breath warm against Chris’ cheek. “Didn’t our young Isaac have a place he used to go to ground? A motel, if memory serves?”

There’s no reason for Peter to know that, of course, but he’s right, regardless. It’s one of those snippets of information Chris had learned when he’d joined Melissa and the Sheriff in taking up the care and feeding of one Isaac Lahey. And said child is now scowling, which means Peter has hit the nail on the head.

Chris sifts through his memories, occasionally distracted by Peter’s breath still gusting against him as he has yet to step away. It takes him a good thirty seconds, during which Isaac’s scowl grows deeper, to dredge the name up.

“Redwood Inn,” he tells Peter.

“Good. Let’s go.” Peter turns on his heel without another word. Chris lingers in front of Isaac. His face is carefully blank, protecting himself from anyone who might see his distress and judge him as weak. No one here would, but Chris understands all too well that old habits die hard. Scott slings his arm around Isaac’s shoulder and presses his forehead to his temple.

“It’s fine. We did what we could.”

Chris reaches out a hand and ruffles Isaac’s hair. “You did good, kid. Don’t you worry about that. And I’m taking you for a haircut Friday. That mop’s out of control.”

He lets those be his parting words and catches up to Peter at the entrance to the school. No point in being upset at kids being kids, and Isaac _had_ done well. He feels oddly proud. It’s good to see them really supporting each other. For far too long it had seemed like the curse of the Argent and Hale families would spread to this younger generation, ripping them apart as it had the rest of them. But the pack is stronger now, and getting stronger every day, built up by the very differences that could have destroyed them. 

Peter holds up Chris’ cell, reminding him he’d never actually relinquished it back to his possession. “I Googled it. It’s across the tracks.” He purses his lips and makes a face. “It has half a star on Yelp. I’m ashamed I let myself get talked into this.”

Chris’ lips twitch as he slides into the driver’s seat. “You’ve gotten snottier with old age.”

“Old age! I’ll have you know, Christopher Argent—”

Chris turns the radio up to drown him out, and lets Google Maps guide him.

* * * * * * * * * * * * *

Derek wakes up alone. For one hazy second he thinks Jennifer has left, and something hollow settles in his gut, but it only takes another moment to remember that’s really not her style. She comes and goes by the front door alone, and he doesn’t think she’s ever considered it a walk of shame. He’s the one far more likely to sneak out the window in the middle of the night, swearing he can hear her amused laughter following him, even though he’d left her dead asleep.

He makes a face as he stretches across the motel bed, burying his head under the pillow. Dead isn’t a comfortable word to put in the same thought as Jennifer.

He stays balanced on the cusp of full wakefulness for another second before lifting the pillow and opening his eyes. The room is a mess from last night. Chair overturned, blankets strewn across the floor, broken lamp in the corner. And there, in the middle of it all, looking completely untouched by, and perfectly at home in the chaos is Jennifer. She’s balanced against the window sill, wearing his t-shirt and mesmerized by the rising sun. Her hair is in her face and she’s holding a carryout cup from the cafe across the street, which begs the question of whether or not she’d gone to buy it in just his shirt.

As always, he’s arrested, unable to look away despite the thread of shame and self loathing that winds its way through his attraction. That the thread has been more and more gossamer of late creates an entirely different kind of shame.

“Good morning, Sir Grumps a Lot.” She tucks a tangle of hair behind her ear and grins at him over her cup. “Yours is on the bedside table.”

His eyebrows bunch in consternation as he finds the cup of chai steaming next to him.

“Boys who don’t run away deserve to be rewarded.”

“That’s not funny.”

She glides over and plops down next to him. “No, it’s funny. Trust me. I once wrote a research paper on the humor of Edgar Allan Poe. Anything is funny if you look hard enough.”

“So you really did go to college, then? I thought you’d made that up.”

“Of course I went to college, silly.” She picks his cup up and pushes it into his hands. “How was I supposed to teach high school students AP Lit if I didn’t get a degree?”

“I just assumed you’d lied and voodoo’d your way in like everything else.”

The look she gives him is patently disappointed. “Voodoo and the Druid are two entirely different branches. Don’t insult either of them by conflating them with each other.”

“It’s just a figure of— And stop changing the subject!”

“Plenty of figures of speech are insulting or racist. Just because it’s common doesn’t make it okay.” She’s slipped into teacher mode, sitting prim and proper despite his shirt riding up her thigh, and he halfway expects her to nudge an imaginary pair of glasses higher on her nose. He takes a sip of chai to hide how attractive he finds it and scowls instead. Her lips twist in a good natured smirk and he gets the feeling he’s not fooling her at all.

“And no, I didn’t Jedi Mind trick my way in. Next time we meet I’ll bring you my degree.”

“The Jedi and the Druid are two entirely different branches,” he mimics mincingly, “Mehmeh mehmeh mehmeh, my name is Jennifer Blake and I graduated _college_.”

She laughs so hard she snorts coffee from her nose and _that_ sends her into gales. When she finally catches her breath, there are tears in the corners of her eyes and he can’t hide the small, proud smile that overtakes his scowl.

“Oh, Derek,” she gasps, collapsing flat onto the bed and throwing her free hand over her eyes. “Edgar Allen Poe had nothing on you.”

They sit in silence. It’s the longest he’s stayed the morning after, and the closest to content he’s been in months. And as much as he accepts that it’s wrong, a part of him is reluctant to break it. But he’d set this meeting for a purpose, and despite that purpose being derailed within seconds of him walking into the hotel room, he hasn’t forgotten it.

He prefers to have his confrontations with Jennifer in person. It’s easier to tell if she’s lying if they’re face to face.

He sets his cup down. “Were you ever planning on telling me the Alphas had been in Beacon Hills before? Before Kali and Ennis? Before _Julia_. Before _Paige_?”

“Well, well, well.” Jennifer purses her lips. “Someone’s being doing their homework. Where exactly was that tidbit of information?”

“So you did know.”

“Of course.”

“Just like you knew about the nemeton being used.”

“Are you going somewhere with this?”

“And you didn’t bother telling me.”

“Why are you upset?” She looks genuinely confused, and that pisses him off even more. “I certainly wasn’t involved in Deucalion’s first little escapade. I was _five_ for God’s sake. I didn’t even learn about werewolves until I was fourteen. How exactly would me telling you matter?”

“Because!” he bursts out, “That’s the kind of thing you fucking tell the person you’re in a relationship with! It really never occurred to you that you maybe should say _‘Hey, Derek, Deucalion actually blew through town way back when. Tried to get your mom to slaughter her entire pack, including her three year old son, and so she pulled up stakes and ran to save your lives Paige and Ennis were just phase two.’_ Or, I don’t know, even a _“Oh, by the way, there’s some serious time traveling shit headed your way.”_

He throws his hands in the air. “Jesus, Jennifer, did it really never occur to you? It’s called communication!”

She’s watching him closely, one eyebrow raised. “So this is a relationship? That’s what this is to you?”

“Gah!” He struggles with the brief desire to wring her neck. _“That’s_ what you’re focusing on here?”

“Well, yeah. I mean, that is kind of a big breakthrough for you, don’t you think?”

His jaw twitches underneath the strain of trying not to scream. Maybe Jennifer can see the vein pounding in his forehead because she finally takes pity on him.

“Derek. I didn’t see any point in mentioning it. Things were…hectic…at the Lunar Eclipse. And then Deucalion was dead and I thought it prudent to make myself scarce. Tempers were running a bit high. Besides, as far as I knew, Peter had already told you.”

“Yes,” he deadpans, “because Peter and I talk so very much.”

She curls up on her side, head resting on his hip. “How _did_ you find out?”

“Deucalion’s journals. We found them in his penthouse. After. I never bothered reading them. Until—”

“Until all of this.”

“Everything’s changing. Trust no one…I know that one. But I thought I knew what the lines were. But if even that’s a lie…I needed any information I could get.”

“You know more than me, then. Kali only mentioned it in passing. How strong Deucalion was. How even when he was just starting, he’d run the mighty Talia Hale into hiding.”

He hesitates, distrust heavy on his tongue.

“I can hear you thinking. You don’t have to tell me. I don’t mind.”

The fact she _doesn’t_ mind, that it really makes no difference to her if he trusts her or not, bothers him more than it should and somehow opens his mouth.

“I think it’s connected. Deucalion and… _them_. The date Talia left Beacon Hills is only a couple of weeks from when they jumped here. It can’t be a coincidence.”

“Maybe. Or maybe you’re just looking too hard to make it make sense. Sometimes a duck is just a duck. I thought I told you to let them figure it out. This one isn’t our fight.”

“You’re lying, aren’t you? Kali didn’t tell you. Or she wasn’t the only one. It’s not just _who_ , is it? You know the _why_.”

She rolls onto her back, looking up at him without any pretense, the shell of the coquette gone. “Yes.”

“And you’re still not going to tell me.”

“I told you, Derek. I’m threading the needle. Let this take care of itself.”

“That excuse isn’t going to hold them off anymore! Peter and Chris are going to come for you.”

She cocks her head. “How do you know?”

He absently rubs a lock of her hair between his fingers. It’s coarser, now that it’s real and not a magic fueled illusion. He likes it better.

“I talked to Cora yesterday. Stiles told her Chris and Peter have reached the breaking point. And you’re next on their list to break.”

“It must be hard for them.” She hops to her feet and shucks off his shirt. He’s distracted by tits and ass for a hot minute, before she tugs her jeans on and fishes her shirt off the floor. When she rights the fallen chair he realizes what she’s doing. Time to go. Usually he’s long gone by now anyway, so he’s not sure why he feels disappointed. He takes his shirt from her outstretched hand and silently joins her cleaning efforts.

“Being forced into such close proximity.” He doesn’t even question how she knows the current living arrangements. “Being forced to spend day in and day out with the constant reminder of your mistakes. All while having such…strong…feelings about each other. Fuck or fight, isn’t that what it always comes down to? Probably easier to come after me than deal with all that burning…hatred.”

“That’s disgusting. Please don’t put my uncle and Chris in the same sentence with fucking.”

She grins. “I don’t think I’ll be the one putting them in that position.” She flicks her wrist and a sudden whirling dervish of dust engulfs the lamp shards. When it clears, the shards are gone; in their place the lamp stands, whole once more. She so rarely does magic these days - at least in front of him - that there are times he can almost forget how powerful she actually is. Of course, if he’s ever really tempted, there’s a postcard on his refrigerator, dated two months ago and signed Erica & Boyd, that’s always there to remind him.

Jennifer picks the lamp up and settles it back in its original position. “Are you ever going to tell Stiles you know about him and your sister?”

“Are you kidding me? It’s too much fun watching him squirm.”

She throws the last pillow on the bed, then pats him on the chest. “You’re horrible. I love it.” She steps back, sobering. “Tell me, Derek. If they come, will you stand with me? Be my guardian again? By choice?”

She had asked him before, back when this had first begun, but this time there’s no mirth in her eyes, no bait in her voice.

He nods, the thread of shame and self loathing fraying out of control. “Yes.”

“Well.” She loops her purse over her shoulder. “Luckily, I don’t think it will come to that. Time is running out.”

He wants to ask her what she means by that, but he knows she won’t answer. Besides, she’s already walking to the door, has already dismissed him.

He’s leaving the tip for housekeeping when she stops, hand on doorknob, and looks over her shoulder. “You want to grab some lunch? I hear that’s what people in relationships do.”

He shouldn’t. There are dozens of reasons and six dead teenagers why he shouldn’t. But they’re all remarkably quiet at the moment.

“Yeah. Okay. I’ll tell you about the time I told Stiles Cora had gone on a date. Now _that_ was funny.”

* * * * * * * * * *


	23. Chapter 23

The motel is, ironically, right down the street from the overgrown lot that used to hold Beacon Hills’ one lone gay club. Peter laughs, short and sharp when he sees it, then wrinkles his nose when they pull into the motel. Chris concurs. It’s as if a no-tell motel and a truck stop had spit out a baby, and it’s a testament to how bad Isaac’s father had been that for Isaac, this had been a haven of safety.

The clerk is disinterested and bored, and makes no effort to hide the open can of beer on the cracked surface of the yellow formica desk. Chris glances at his peeling name tag. “Bill, we’re looking for two boys,” Chris opens.

The clerk barely looks up from the hot rod magazine he’s idly flipping through. “I don’t handle that kinky shit. Clarissa gets here at five. Come back then and she can help you out.”

Chris is still processing that horror when Peter leans over the counter, lip curled back. “We’re not looking for _that_ , you idiot. We’re looking for two of your _guests_.”

“Oh.” He slumps back in his chair, arms crossed over his belly. “Guest information is confidential. Can’t help. Sorry. Although…” He gives them a once over, from Peter’s expensive watch to to the cut of Chris’ shirt to the models of their phones. “…I might can bend that rule. With the proper persuasion.”

“How about this?” Peter says silkily, reaching down into the alcove and picking up the desk phone. He punches a number over Bill’s protests, and holds up a finger as it rings.

“Yes, hello. Police dispatch?” Bill’s eyes widen comically. “Yes, I’d like to make an anonymous report. I’ve just received information that there is a child prostitution ring running out of the Redwood Motel…yes, same address as this number… yes, thank you. The pimp is supposed to be here at five. Clarissa. Yes. Uh huh—” The clerk tries to dart from his chair and Chris reaches around Peter to jerk him back by his collar. “No, no name, sorry. I have to go now.”

Peter drops the receiver back on the hook. “Now, I was always going to do that. And if I find out our young friend who once frequented this dump was ever exploited in that way, I will come back and rip Clarissa’s heart out myself. But what I _won’t_ do is pick this phone up and tell the police I forgot to mention that Clarissa’s co-conspirator was a desk clerk named Bill. As long as you give us what we want to know.”

Bill is already nodding frantically, and Chris releases his grip just enough so that he can sit back down and take a breath. “Okay, okay! Jesus! What did they look like?”

Like younger versions of us, Chris thinks but doesn’t say. “A little taller than average. One has black hair, the other blond. Both too long. Black haired one is skinny and—”

Bill put up a hand, stopping him. “Room 23. Checked in about 4 hours ago.”

Peter holds out his hand. “Key.”

As soon as Bill drops the key in his palm, Chris lets go of him. “Don’t call anyone. He wasn’t joking about the heart thing.” He’s not 100% sure, but he’s fairly certain the clerk has pissed himself. He bares his teeth at him for good measure and Bill shrinks back, clutching his beer to his chest.

When they’re back outside, Peter dials his cell. “Sheriff? It’s Peter. What? No, I have not killed anyone…And why in the world would I call _you_ if I had…Exactly. Now listen quickly. I just made an anonymous call to police dispatch…Yes, that one…Good Lord, don’t worry about the why. Because I’m a decent human being!…Stop laughing. Do you want this information or not? Oh for God’s sake.” He thrusts the phone at Chris. “Give him the clerk’s name so we can get on with this.”

Chris does as instructed, then hangs up before Stilinski can ask too many questions. He hands the phone back to Peter, a question in the arch of his eyebrow. It’s not that he hadn’t been planning on turning the clerk in himself, he’s just surprised Peter had done it instead.

“What?” Peter dismisses him with a shoulder lift. “It’s disgusting. I was never going to _actually_ let him go, regardless. Even I have limits. Now, come, Christopher. Let’s go fetch the children.”

* * * * * * * * * * * *

The room is just around the corner, the first on the row. They glance at each other as Peter spins the key ring on his finger. In the end he doesn’t knock, just inserts the key and throws the door open. “Surprise!”

“ _Shhh!_ ” is the word that greets them, and the smell of sex almost knocks him down the second they step inside. Turns out the jokes on them. His junior self doesn’t look shocked at all. Instead he’s glaring at them from the bed, while a lump of blanket with mysteriously sprouting black hair is curled up and snoring beside him.

“Don’t wake him up. He just fell asleep.” Then he smirks, filthy and belligerent. “It’s been an exhausting day.” For all his bravado, he puts a careful arm around Peter and doesn’t take his eyes off the two men at the door. 

Chris looks around the room in bewilderment. Even if he wanted to believe they hadn’t done what they so clearly _had_ , obvious nudity aside, every other detail would prove the lie. Their clothes are scattered about the floor, along with damp towels and shoes and a random assortment of dollar store toiletries. The tube of lube glares the brightest, half empty on a cracked, plastic chair.

“But you had a plan!” he blurts out. “What happened to the cabins?”

“Fuck the cabins,” his younger self spits out. “We deserved better than the cabins. We deserve _now_.”

He had miscalculated. He had miscalculated so badly the effect Peter killing Gerard would have on his younger self. But even if he hadn’t, it wouldn’t have mattered. Because this has all— This has all already--

The vitriol in young Chris’ voice has roused Peter, who licks his lips, yawns and stretches luxuriously before settling back halfway on Chris’ chest. Only then does he open his eyes. His grin is self satisfied and completely shameless. “You’re too late. We win.”

Chris’ brain is still spinning. Still trying to make sense of this. Scars and cigarette burns are one thing. But this. _This_ … And still, while he may _feel_ lost, Peter _looks_ lost, eyes darting between Chris and the boys on the bed over and over again. His eyebrows are drawn together and his hands clench and unclench compulsively, but it doesn’t look like anger, doesn’t look like a fist. It looks like he wants to reach for something he can’t quite see.

His mouth works soundlessly before words stumble out. “But we didn’t— This isn’t—” He turns suddenly to Chris. “I need some fresh air.” Without further explanation he walks out the door, steps so quick they’re almost a run. His shoulder brushes Chris’ as he goes, and then the door slams behind him.

The juniors exchange a bemused glance. “Wow,” Peter deadpans. “Someone can’t handle we beat them to the punch. What? Is he pissed my powers of persuasion somehow improved in the last two weeks? Am I really that competitive?” He looks at young Chris and then nods. “Yes. Yes I am.”

He waves a hand at Chris, even as he’s already working on burying himself back under the blankets. “Tell him not to worry. I’m sure the cabin was great, too. And, lucky us, it still will be!”

They’re both positively _glowing_ , happy and fucked out and so, so, sure of themselves, and it’s something about that that finally makes him snap.

“No,” he hisses. “No it wasn’t, and no it won’t. Because you don’t. _We_ don’t. We never did.”

“What?” For the first time his younger self looks uncertain. “But—”

“No.” Chris cuts him off, because it’s not like it matters anymore. Not like this is going to change a goddamn thing. Not like they can _do_ a goddamn thing. “Three days before you’re supposed to go, an alpha pack comes to town. Three hours before you’re supposed to leave Peter tells you Talia is moving the pack. Now. What he doesn’t tell you is that the alpha pack has given her the choice of butchering her family and joining them, or being butchered herself. So they run, instead. And he never calls and he never writes—” Unfair, and, he now knows, not quite true, but he’s not in the mood to be kind, “—and you won’t see him again for over twenty years. So this? We never get the chance for this. It _never happens_.”

Except it had. They had done this and gotten to have this and they _don’t remember_.

He wants to scream at the unfairness of it all, at what was stolen. Only he’s staring down idiotic children and it’s going to help absolutely nothing if he loses his shit. This was the past and they live in the now and there’s absolutely nothing they can do to change what happened.

In the wake of his outburst, the juniors are staring at him open mouthed and wide eyed, and for half a second he thinks he’s managed to dent that never ending optimism, but then Chris shrugs and grins and nudges Peter.

“We already changed it, Petie. I wasn’t stupid so we already changed it. And now we can fix it for good.”

Peter smiles beautifically, a lock of hair falling across one eye. “Yeah. Yeah we did. And don’t call yourself stupid.”

If he were Peter, he supposes he would crush that dream right here and now, but instead he snaps “Get dressed and get your things. Who knows what bugs you’ve picked up from this place.” As he turns away to give them privacy he hears Peter whisper to his younger self, “Wow, not getting to sleep with me makes _you_ grumpy, too.”

Chris clenches his fists so hard his nails cut into his palms.

When they finally walk outside, Peter is nowhere to be seen. He’s not at the car, either, when they make their way there. When he’d said he needed some air, Chris had thought he’d meant a brief walk around the parking lot, not vanishing into thin air and leaving Chris to suffer with the juniors alone. He hustles them into the car, and as they’re pulling onto the road, a police car is pulling in. Stilinski’s in the driver’s seat, and he gives a short wave as they pass.

At least one thing is going right, and Chris makes a mental note to find some way to ask Isaac if he’d ever been approached by this Clarissa. He wants to believe Isaac would have told him, but Isaac still keeps too many secrets from all of them for him to be completely confident in that.

But first he has to find Peter, and deal with the mess in his backseat.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

He had assumed Peter had gone to the condo, either shifting and running or conning some poor soul into giving him a ride. But the condo is dark and there’s no sign he’s been there since they left hours earlier. He calls him, but it goes straight to voicemail. He tries again, and gets the same response. Then he texts, just a curt _Where are you?_ , but when he hears nothing for another ten minutes, he hustles the boys back into the car.

There’s a migraine growing behind his eyes, and an uneasy swirling in his gut. He remembers the bar, remembers how close Peter had come to braining a man rather than deal with the grief. If he’s upset enough to disappear, rather than stay to verbally rend them to pieces so he can destroy the past… he’s too dangerous to be left alone.

He screeches up to Melissa’s house, finding Allison’s car there as expected. He barely waits for Melissa to open the door, Scott and Isaac and Allison peering out from behind her, before thrusting the boys into the house. “I need you to watch them for me.” 

When Melissa raises a questioning eyebrow, he says simply, “Peter is missing.”

“Ah,” she answers, then draws the boys into her living room. “Take as much time as you need.”

He leaves it to the rest of them to explain where the boys had been, to figure out the matter of food and showers and whatever else might come up. He can trust Melissa to keep them in one place and in line.

Back in the car, he pulls up the GPS for Peter’s phone. It’s already forty miles away and two towns over; Peter _must_ have shifted at the motel. It’s unlike Peter to be so careless. To risk exposure so easily. He would only have done it if he had felt there were no other choices.

Chris zooms in on the address with one hand while spinning the wheel in a u-turn with the other. When the exact street number pops up he curses, and steps on the gas. He’d thought he had been the only one who knew where she lived. Fuck or fight, and Peter has decided to solve the problem the only way he knows how. The only way he can accept. With enough blood on his hands, he won’t have to deal with anything.

He considers calling to warn her, but it’s too little, too late. At this point, he can only hope to get there in time to save something. To get some kind of information maybe, or at least to clean up the mess. He doubts Peter’s of a mind to run any kind of interrogation, and he doubts that’s really his goal anyway, at least not more than surface deep.

He considers calling Derek, too, but dismisses that one even quicker. There’s no time to deal with that kind of drama.

He makes the hour drive in forty five minutes, sliding the SUV sideways to seamlessly parallel park between a Toyota and one of those gnat sized electric things. A group of teens stare open-mouthed as he steps out of the vehicle and onto the sidewalk.

“Stunt driver,” he offers, as he slips past them and into the open courtyard of the cafe. It’s crowded at this time of day - high school students just out of class, college students cramming for exams, bespectacled hipsters wearing scarves even though it’s 90 degrees outside. But the courtyard isn’t his concern. He weaves a path through the tables, intent on the small door on the side of the building, away from the entrance to the cafe main. The small door that leads to an upstairs loft.

He’s almost there when he’s arrested mid-stride, mission diverted by a man sitting alone at a table on the very fringe. He’s turning a high ball glass around and around in his hand, his eyes fixed on Chris.

Chris approaches him slowly, like he would a wild animal, and then pulls out the chair opposite to sit. It makes a horrible screeching noise, as iron scrapes against tile, but Peter doesn’t flinch. Despite the instinctual discomfort he feels with having his back to a crowd, Chris sits anyway. Better to the crowd than to Peter. But Peter’s hands are clean and his eyes are clear and his opening words are not what Chris had expected.

“They make the best coffee here. There’s nothing worse than badly made iced coffee.” He takes a sip from his glass, the ice tinkling from the shake in his hand. “Derek mentioned it a few months ago, and I’ve been addicted ever since. Completely worth the drive.”

Peter has no idea where he is. Chris closes his eyes and blows out a breath and buries his face in his hands. Too many fucking coincidences in Beacon County. He raises his head again and watches Peter take another small, shaking sip.

“You didn’t tell me you were leaving.”

“Of course I did. I told you I needed fresh air.”

“Which means leaning on the wall outside the room! Not risking exposure to run across two towns.”

“Pfft.” Peter dismisses him with a hand flap. “No one saw. And I knew you’d just use your little creeper app to find me. And here you are!” he finishes brightly. His face doesn’t match his words. It’s gray and drawn and he just looks…tired.

Chris hesitates, then reaches out a hand. Peter—”

“No. _No_.” Without warning Peter just…collapses. His drink clatters to the table and he rakes his fingers through his hair, his face raw and caught somewhere between angry and injured.

“I can’t do this anymore.”

“Do what?” Instinct is stronger than good sense, and he’s reaching for Peter again. This is wrong, _Peter_ is wrong, and if he can just touch him, if he can just give him his anchor—

Peter jerks his hands out of reach. “ _No_. I can’t do this. I can’t keep acting like nothing ever happened. Like none of it mattered. I can’t—” He scrubs his hands through his hair again, looking less like the polished, unreachable Peter of the last two years and more like the Peter of twenty years ago, angrily shoving Chris away with a hissed _‘Don’t you dare. Don’t you_ dare. _You know what that means for my kind.’_

“I’m tired.” He slumps back in his seat and flaps his hands at Chris. “Just…take them. Put them in whatever hotel you’ve stowed Allison. I trust you.”

“Peter—”

Peter shakes his head and stands, leaving his coffee behind. “Stop talking, Argent. I’m done. You can finish this charade yourself.”

Chris’ mouth won’t move, words stuck behind an inexplicable tightening of his throat. He can’t call Peter back, can only watch, hand still outstretched, as Peter disappears into a passing crowd.

He slowly drops his arm back to the table, and, just like earlier, he finds himself staring blankly at nothing, unable to fully grasp onto any one thought. 

Gradually he becomes aware of a slow, steady clap, just behind him. He twists in his chair to find the source. It’s clearly a woman, but at first that’s all he can see, other than the hands, somehow mocking him with every clap. Her head is bowed and her face hidden by the wide, blue brim of a hat that brings to mind Audrey Hepburn. 

Then she raises her head and he’s face to face with Jennifer Blake.

“That was quite a performance. I feel like I should have paid admission.”

Fury rises in his throat, tinged with embarrassment. She had no right. Once Peter is himself again, he’ll be horrified she had witnessed his…whatever it was…and an odd surge of protectiveness joins the petri dish of emotions.

“What are you doing here?”

She laughs and picks up her mug and stands, walking over to sit in the seat Peter had so recently vacated. “I live here. But then you already know that, don’t you?” Her fingers tap a jaunty tune on the iron braid of the table top. “ I’ve always wondered why you never shared that information with Derek. Care to enlighten me?” 

He folds his arms over his chest. “Care to share who butchered three people to fuck with mine and Peter’s heads?”

“No, not especially. Although I’d argue the two of you didn’t really need any extra help with that. Repression will do that to you.”

“Give me the name, Jennifer.”

“It’s not going to help. It’s not going to make it go away, even if you manage to send them back. Genie’s out of the bag, Chris. If it was ever really in.”

The back of his neck grows cold. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

She sighs and looks into her cup for a long minute, like she’s reading futures in non existent tea leaves. Then she squints up at him. “You know, you all judge Derek so hard for being with me. For knowingly walking back into a relationship with a murderer. A woman who used and exploited him as a means to an end. But at least Derek had the guts to reach out and take what he wanted. At least he wasn’t so _petrified_ of everyone’s opinion that he just sat like a jackass while what he wanted _walked away_.”

He wants to tell her she doesn’t know what she’s talking about. He wants to tell her that Derek’s not brave, he’s a goddamn idiot. He wants to tell her this is none of her business.”

“It’s not that simple,” comes out instead.

“No, Chris, it really is. Everything else is just details. You sit and you watch and you want, yet you’re too afraid to take. Tell me - when did the Argent line become such cowards?”

“You have no—”

“Ms. Blake?”

A kid in an apron emblazoned with the cafe’s logo stands tentatively at the table, a clipboard in hand. Jennifer smiles kindly at him. “It’s fine, Tyler. You’re not interrupting. What do you need?”

“The salmon shipment finally arrived. They need a signature.” He holds the clipboard out and fishes a pen from his pocket.

“ _Finally_. Tell Dale to double check the invoice. We’re not taking it if they didn’t give us the discount.” She scrawls her signature on the form and hands it back. When he’s gone, she turns back to Chris, staring at him coolly.

“What?”

“You don’t just live here, do you? You own it. The building, the cafe. All of it.”

“The Bed & Breakfast across the street, too. A girl’s gotta eat, you know.”

He shakes his head, somehow bemused. He doesn’t know exactly _what_ he’d thought Jennifer was doing to support herself. Blood money maybe, or conning some poor rich bastard out of his savings. Definitely not this. It’s just so…ordinary.

“Does Derek know? I know you meet him here.”

“Of course not. He doesn’t even know where I _live_.”

“Why the mystery? If things are so wonderful, why the lies?”

“I never said things were wonderful. I’m a killer who coerced him into killing. And the silly boy has _such_ a guilt complex. It’s work. Long, hard work. Five steps forward and four steps back. So do you really think I’d be sticking it out if it wasn’t worth it?

“You forget I know what you’ve done. Had front row seats. I think you’re capable of all kinds of things.”

She’s not insulted. “Suit yourself.” She takes another sip from her mug, then stands. “Take care, Argent. But remember this. You and Peter show up here again for anything more than coffee, I’ll show you just how much a Darach I still am. And I think you know exactly what side Derek’s on.”

She smiles tightly before walking away, but only takes three steps before she pauses. She shakes her head and blows a long breath through her nose then quickly walks back. She lays her hands flat on the table and leans in, a shade too close.

“Peter can’t be brave. Not by himself. It will have to be you.”

She waits, but when he only stares silently back, she shakes her head again. “Then die a thousand deaths. All of them alone.” She straightens her cardigan and steps back. “Now if you’ll excuse me, these books aren’t going to cook themselves.”

And just as she’d predicted, he finds himself alone, chest aching and throat closed tight.

* * * * * * * * * * *

Peter’s bones still ache from how swiftly he’d shifted. From how unfocused and out of control he’d been when he’d run. How desperate. It’s pathetic that a werewolf as seasoned as he should even feel the faintest hint of after affect at all, much less _this_.

He hisses at his reflection in the mirror, then draws back his fist and smashes it. Glass rains down around him and he grins, licking the blood from his knuckles as the skin fuses together again.

That’s better.

He is Peter Hale. Survivor. _Victor_. Nothing controls him. _No one_. Especially not two brats who don’t even belong here. Especially not a broken shadow that had been burned clean away by the heat of Kate’s arson. Purification, really, that fire.

His home is blessedly quiet, and his footsteps ring hollow as he pads down the stairs and into the kitchen. A pack of cigarettes sits abandoned on the counter and he flicks it into the trash. Dirty pot into dishwasher, plate and glass by the couch following after. It is time to get his house into order.

He picks up the folded blanket, holding it close to his middle as the scent of Chris drifts all about him. He breathes solely through his mouth, then, even though it turns the entire room dull and dim.

It’s no trouble to clean out the first two guest rooms. He shoves all of the boys things into plastic garbage bags and sets them by the door. Chris can have them. Chris can have it all. Peter wants nothing to do with any of it.

He pauses in front of Chris’ bedroom, hand hovering over the doorknob. Time to take the trash out. He drops his hand to the knob, grasps it firmly, then—

Finds himself back in the kitchen, pulling a bottle of whiskey from the liquor cabinet. He considers a glass, them undoes the stopper and lifts it to his mouth. It burns beautifully going down, reminiscent of the flames that had licked his throat as his house had burned down around him and he had opened his mouth to scream.

It scorches the hollowness right out of his gut. Another drink and he’s sure he can scorch it right out of his heart. He lifts the bottle, presses it to his lips, then stops as the doorbell rings. He pauses. Waits.

It rings again, and then he hears the scrape of a key at the lock.

Fury races through him and he flings the bottle at the wall. It shatters, just as satisfyingly as the mirror, and as he walks across the shards, peace slides through him just as easily as the slivers slice into his feet. By the time Chris gets the door open, Peter is waiting, trash bags in hand.

“Oh good. Here.” He shoves the bags into Chris’ hands. “I’ll have your things sent round tonight.”

Chris looks over Peter’s shoulder and sighs, then steps inside and sets the bags back down on the floor.

“I don’t remember inviting you inside, Argent.”

Chris doesn’t answer him directly as he looks at the glass and the tracks Peter has left through it, and finally at Peter’s bare feet.

“What the hell did you do, Petie?”

Calm. He is calm. He is the ashes left after the wildfire. “Just an accident. It will heal soon enough.” He dismisses the mess with a wave. “Clean this away and you’ll never know it happened. Did you need something, Argent? I’m not sure you should be leaving those children alone.”

Chris smiles with one corner of his mouth, causing crinkles to break at the corner of his eye. “They’re spending the night with Melissa.”

“Kinky. Well, that should give you plenty of time to find a new place to stay. Here, let me help you with those.” He goes to grab the bags again, and Chris wraps his fingers around his wrist to halt him. His grip is loose, easy enough for Peter to break, but it feels like a shackle has been locked tight. He sucks in a breath, suddenly deeply aware of the pain in the soles of his feet.

“Let go, Argent.”

“Peter.” Chris looks between his hand on Peter’s wrist, Peter’s eyes, wide and white, and the blood trickling onto the hardwood. “Petie. We don’t have to pretend it didn’t happen.”

Strength surges through Peter’s limbs and he shoves Chris violently away. “Really, Argent? Is that so? You want us to crack open a beer over lunch, like you and your little parents club? Laugh and reminisce and talk about the good old days? Thanks, but I’ll pass. I’d rather poke my eyes out.”

He tries to walk away, pick his way through the glass and back to the kitchen, but Chris cuts him off, suddenly in his space and far too close to his face. Chris grinds his teeth, voice strained and exasperated.

“Why must you always— So _stubborn_. Peter—” Before Peter can predict, before he can see it coming, Chris grabs his face in his hands and kisses him, hard and brutal and closed mouth. Peter’s world spins out of control in the space of two seconds and the fire winks out, only to rekindle in the space between Chris’ lips and his.

It’s over before he can react. Chris pulls back, but keeps his hands on Peter, trapping him between his palms.

“Argent,” he warns, stepping back with one foot, preparing to flee. Chris will heal from a broken wrist, but Peter might not survive this at all.

“No.” Chris shakes his head. “I don’t _want_ to pretend it never happened. And neither do you.”

This time, his mouth is softer, more careful, and his hand slips from Peter’s cheek to cradle the back of his neck. Peter’s chest heaves in rapid repeat as the fire spreads from his lips to his throat to the trace of Chris’ other hand down his side. His own hand acts independent of conscious thought, finds itself fisted in the fabric of Chris’ shirt. He has to be smart. He has to push him away. He has to remember the Argents were always his enemies.

Peter clenches his hand tighter and draws him closer.

Chris feathers his lips to the corner of Peter’s mouth. “It mattered, Peter. It still matters It never stopped mattering.”

The fire breaks, rolling through Peter at lightening speeds, and it’s the same feeling as when the coma had finally snapped, when he had first felt the unfiltered power of the full moon again.

“Christopher,” he breathes, giving up, giving up, because he’s forever been helpless to hold out against Chris. Forever been helpless to stop himself from answering Chris when he calls.

He swears he feels relief in the way Chris coaxes his mouth open and slips his tongue inside. In the way Chris makes a small, broken noise when Peter tastes him back, lets the flavor of Chris at forty two join every other flavor of Chris, categorized and forever kept in the back of his senses.

Peter is shaking when they finally break apart, from little more than kiss and a touch, and Chris presses their foreheads together. Grounding himself, Peter thinks, just as much as he’s attempting to ground Peter. After a minute Peter lifts his head and they stare at each other, balanced on the brink of their next choice.

Had there ever really been another choice? Had there ever been a different chance? Is this the place all roads had curved, the second plausible denial had been stripped away? Peter gives up calculating the ratio, at least for this moment in time.

Chris waits, thumb on Peter’s cheekbone, eyes steady and unafraid. Not nearly the wild eyed boy who had kissed Peter against the cool rock of the cave and then waited to hear his fate.

Peter nods, then takes the hand at his cheek in his, and leads Chris around the glass and up the stairs to his bed.

* * * * * * * * * *


	24. Chapter 24

Peter’s room is cool and open and dark, and the only usable piece of furniture is the California king that dominates the center of the room. Black bedding, of course. Because Peter. He hasn’t missed each wince Peter has suppressed as every step had shifted his weight from one foot to the other, but for now he ignores it as Peter does, letting go of his hand when they step off the staircase, and slowly circling him.

“It’s unfair,” he says finally, stopping in front of Peter and hooking his fingers under the tail of his shirt. “That I can’t remember what this was like the first time.” 

“I suppose we could ask them,” Peter says, a tad bit shakily, “but it seems a bit perverse asking teenagers to detail their sex lives. Even if they are us.”

Chris ignores him. He pulls Peter’s shirt up and over his head, then lets his hands slide back down to rest at his waist. “Did you shiver like this when we were in that hotel room?” He trails his fingers up Peter’s ribs, delighted as Peter skitters ticklishly. “Did you break out in goosebumps like this?”

Peter does not answer, or join the game. Peter is watching him speculatively. Warily. Trying to predict what he is going to do next. 

“I remember how much you liked it when I talked. I wonder if it’s still the same.” Chris leans close and puts his mouth to Peter’s ear. “I’ll tell you a secret,” he whispers, “I’ve gotten better with age.”

Peter shivers, but does not move, and that is something that is definitely new. He had never had to work to drag reactions from Peter when they were young. Once committed, Peter had never hidden what Chris did to his body. Never felt like he had to. Well—

Chris grins sharp. Never let it be said he doesn’t love a challenge. Almost as much as he loves the way Peter moans when he drags his beard across his cheek and scrapes his teeth down his lobe.

“Do you think about it, Peter?” He slowly shifts, step by step, letting his hand trail across Peter’s torso, reveling in each twitch and shiver of his muscles. “Did it eat at you these last weeks? Watching them together? Watching _us_.”

He presses his lips to Peter’s shoulder as he pauses at his side. Peter as a teen had been whip thin, lean and muscled like a runner rather than an adult Were. Somewhere in their years apart, his DNA had finally kicked in, and while, as teens, Chris had spent those heady six months worshiping that body, the bulk and muscles adulthood has gifted Peter with makes his mouth water. He licks across Peter’s collar bone. Peter makes a pleased noise, but when Chris nudges at his jawbone, his head stays resolutely upright.

Stubborn. Unsure. Afraid. All true although Peter would cut his own throat before admitting that last one.

“Did you think about how it would be now? With so many years and life between us? Did you think what it would be like to touch each other? Undress each other? Whisper filthy in the dark how we could burn away all the rage and hate?” He drops his forehead to Peter’ shoulder, rolling it back and forth as he bites his lip and moans. It is not such a sacrifice, giving Peter this truth, and his body knows it. Touching Peter feels like coming home. “Because oh, God, Peter, I did.”

He feels Peter’s mouth in his hair, the touch so brief he could almost have imagined it. “Argent—” he says hoarsely, before falling silent. Everything is a fight with Peter, even when he’s seemingly surrendered. But Chris is not here to win the battle. He is here to win the war. He shifts again, mouth following the line of Peter’s shoulders until he reaches his spine.

“I tried not to, but how couldn’t I? Reminders everywhere, and you, always you, in my space and in the air I breathed, and somehow always ending up right next to me, even though you pretend it’s just an accident.”

A groaning sound of protest slips from Peter, as if he knows he should object, but his brain and body cannot quite reach the same page.

“It’s okay,” Chris soothes, chest now pressed to Peter’s back and his hands leaving brands on his chest and stomach. “I did it, too. Feet always seem to walk in your direction. Pretending only works when we can avoid one other. We always did orbit each other, didn’t we, Petie?”

And oh, there it is, that sweet sound, that tiny, ragged, overwhelmed sob, that neither time, nor age, nor violence had managed to steal away. Chris runs his nose along the nape of Peter’s neck, along the path of his hairline. “Come on, Peter.” He slips his hand up, cupping just under Peter’s chin, fingers a careful request rather than a demand. Right now, he could probably push Peter whatever way he wants him to go, but this only counts if it’s Peter’s choice.

He nuzzles behind Peter’s ear, catching the shell with his lips as he speaks. “Come on. We don’t have to fight anymore. No more pretending we haven’t been two seconds from here the moment we walked into Derek’s loft. No more pretending either of us were ever close to leaving that circle alone. No more pretending I don’t need you just to breathe.”

He can kneel first if that is what Peter needs to face this.

“Give, Peter. Let me see you.”

And with a cry Peter gives in. He sags into Chris’ arms and lolls his head to the side, exposing his neck.

He knows Peter expects him to bite, to sink his teeth in. They will get to that, just like they will get to the fucking - he has no intention of giving that up - but right now, this…this is more important.

He buries his face in Peter’s neck, turning his head to and fro as he rubs cheeks and nose and spit and sweat into Peter’s skin. Pressing his scent in Peter until he’s embedded there. Until he’s marked him in the first way he ever had, long before they were lovers, when they were connected in different, although no less important ways.

When he’s done, he turns Peter’s head the other direction, and when he moves to repeat his actions there, he drops one hand to Peter’s crotch. Peter hisses and bucks into the pressure, dropping his head even further, offering Chris even more.

Chris’ breath thunders in and out of his lungs, and he tugs Peter closer, grinds his dick into the firm globes of his ass. He scrubs his beard into the curve of Peter’s neck. “Here. I want to be here.”

Finally, finally, when Peter’s neck is beard burned and angrily red and reeking of Chris, he gently sets his teeth over Peter’s pulse and _bites_.

With a cry, Peter spins in his arms to face him. His face is entirely wrecked and broken open, but when he defiantly meets Chris’ gaze, a hint of heady satisfaction creeps into his eyes. Chris is sure it is due to the fact he looks just as wrecked, just as affected by this as Peter. Because of course he is. His years with Victoria had taught him a lot about himself; he now understands he gets off on pleasing his partner almost as much as he gets off on sex itself.

Chris presses his thumb to Peter’s lip, smearing his spit and then rubbing it across his own bottom lip. Peter crashes their mouths together, almost catching Chris’ hand between them. He wraps one hand around the back of Chris’ neck and drops the other to his ass, digging fingers in deep. Violent as always, because he has not been able to be anything but in so very, very long.

Chris opens his mouth to Peter’s tongue and to his violence and welcomes it. Welcomes it and takes it all and turns it back on itself. Scrapes nails up Peter’s back and slips his thigh between his legs and fists his hair. He wraps tendrils between his fingers and jerks, small and hard. Peter goes lax, his tongue stuttering to stillness as he whimpers into Chris. It is only a second, less than a second, but Chris takes the opening. Twists his tongue around Peter’s and sucks his bottom lip into his mouth. Strokes a gentle hand back down the same path he had left red welts. Cups his ass in a mirror of Peter’s hand on his own. But where Peter’s is a rough demand that sends delicious shivers down Chris’ spine, Chris’ hands kneads, reacquainting themselves with the lines of Peter’s body. He slides his fingers between the firm globes, pressing just hard enough against the fabric of his jeans that he reaches the resistance of Peter’s hole. 

Peter grinds into Chris’ thigh and pushes back into his fingers, and Chris gentles that, too, coaxing Peter into a slow rhythm that leaves them both trembling as Peter finally relaxes into it.

“You’re so good, Peter. So very, very good.” He draws back so they’re nose to nose, and he can feel Peter’s lashes against his face. “No matter what they stole, they couldn’t take everything. Could they?” 

Why their erstwhile memory thief was so selective is something that bothers him; it seems to make more sense to take everything. Leave the heirs to the Argent and Hale tragedies with no ties to this at all. But now is not the time for those thoughts. It barely surfaces in his brain before he lets it float away. He’s not interested in the past at the moment. Not when the future has suddenly become wide open.

“For instance…” He moves nimble fingers to the fly of Peter’s jeans and begins to undo them. “Do you still remember how I tasted on the back of your throat? How it felt to swallow me down? Because I know I’ve never forgotten how you tasted on the back of mine.”

He drops to his knees, taking Peter’s pants and boxer briefs with him as he goes. He groans happily at the sight of Peter’s erection, echoing the sound that seems almost ripped from Peter’s lungs. His hands go immediately to Chris’ head, cupping it firmly, but with so much more care than he had been capable of even five minutes ago.

* * * * * * * * * * * * 

Chris is kneeling before him, and it is a sight Peter cannot look away from. _Could_ not look away from, even if hunters suddenly stormed his bedroom. And that statement is entirely a lie. Peter would definitely take the time necessary to kill them, if only for interrupting _this_.

Chris’ mouth hangs open, and his pupils are blown wide and he is staring at Peter’s cock like he’s gagging for it. So much gorgeous desire that he makes no attempt to hide or temper and Peter _aches_ for it.

“Are you sure you really remember?” He spreads his fingers across Chris’ skull, cradles his cheeks with his thumbs. He could smash him like this. Crush his skull to pieces and pop his eyes from his sockets. 

Chris does not look concerned and Peter finds he is not remotely tempted. Which is new. Even if he were to admit to Chris’ accusations, admit that he has lain awake at night and fucked his hand and done all he could not to think of Chris… Even if he were to admit he has found himself seeking Chris out during the day with no reason than the way his shoulders relaxed with proximity… Even if he were to admit to all of this, the admission would still have been tinged with violence. With the smallest edge of the need to spring at Chris and tear his heart from his body. For the sin of his DNA, for daring to crawl beneath Peter’s skin, for the audacity of offering everything that Peter would swear he no longer craves.

But this desire is clean. Washed, and pure like nothing he has felt in years.

“Are you sure, Christopher?” He urges Chris’ head closer to his groin. “Perhaps you should check to be sure.”

Chris grins, quick and true, and then looks slyly at Peter. “Perhaps I really should.” Then he leans forward, no coaxing needed, and swallows Peter down. This is not teasing, this is not foreplay. This is intense intention, and Peter wails low as Chris sucks him off with more skill than he’d ever possessed as a teenager.

The violence is back, if just for the flash of a thought. The need to find what men had perfected Chris’ already perfect mouth and vivisect them slow and messy. Peter does not share. Peter owns. He gives Victoria a pass only because she kept Chris alive long enough for Peter to retake possession.

Then all thought flies out of his brain as Chris tongues his slit and tugs his balls and presses one finger against his hole. Peter’s knees almost buckle and he can feel Chris grin around him. The bastard. Peter tugs at Chris’ hair in retribution, but that just makes him hum, a noise that sounds so pleased Peter can feel his own smirk threatening to break free.

He will not last like this, and he is not even tempted to try. Time is on his side, at least for tonight. Tomorrow Chris will no doubt creep shamefacedly out the door, back to his daughter and his friends and his oh so honorable life, but Peter will exploit this for all it is worth right now.

He hears the voice in the back of his head, whispering this will never be just for tonight, that tonight will never be enough. That nothing has ever been _enough_ where Christopher Argent is concerned. He is not a fan of that voice; it sounds far too much like his own. 

Then Chris does something unbearably clever with his tongue and just the hint of his teeth, and Peter is coming, coming, coming, all thought of anything but the pleasure shooting behind his eyes like stars escaping out of his dick.

His sob is ragged, and Chris’ hand on his thigh is soothing as he pulls away with one final lick, and Peter finds his knees collapsing after all. Chris’ arm breaks his fall, catching him just before he crashes, and sets him gently on the floor. He looks up with a gasp and finds them staring face to face.

* * * * * * * * * * *

Peter’s eyes are wide and wet and full of wonder. Chris’ mouth is raw and red and full of the taste of Peter. The dichotomy makes perfect sense.

“Even better than I remember,” he finally says, and his voice is hoarse and ragged. The sound is not lost on Peter. His eyes flare and then he tackles Chris onto the hardwood. Chris’ shoulders and back will no doubt protest in the morning, but as of now they are doing nothing but singing hallelujah as Peter licks into his mouth and takes his taste back. His tongue is nimble, and thorough, and by the time he is done, he tastes as much of himself as Chris does.

He sits back and tugs at Chris’ shirt. Chris rises to give him space to pull it off. To ball it up and toss it into a darkened corner. When he lays back, he accidentally bumps the arch of his foot into Peter’s sole. Peter winces, and Chris is all at once reminded of the glass still embedded there.

“Peter—”

Peter places a finger over his mouth. “Hush.”

Chris relents, if only because Peter distracts him by sliding down his body, mouth tracing the tendon of Chris’ neck as he goes. When he reaches the juncture of Chris’ throat and shoulder he pauses, teeth just barely pressing into flesh. 

Chris grips the back of Peter’s head and drops his own head back. “Which way, Peter?” If Peter chose to, he could kill Chris right now. Rip into vulnerable flesh and sever an artery. And Chris has just given him the right. One of them must be brave. And perhaps just a bit stupid. He is not sure if he feels more of a kinship with Derek or with Jennifer at this moment.

But he knows Peter, no matter the time or place. Has always known Peter, even when he was twisted and broken and barely human at all. Admitting that fact has maybe been the hardest thing in all of this. He’s still broken, but the broken pieces have given Chris place to take root again. So there’s no surprise when Peter sets teeth to skin and bites. Hard and too deep and painful.

Chris arches with a strangled shout, his dick hardening even further and pressing uncomfortably against his jeans. Peter keeps his teeth sunk into Chris’ shoulder for another moment, shuddering where his chest is plastered to Chris’. Chris pets his hair and brushes his lips against the crown of his head and waits as the waves of pleasure slowly recede. Finally Peter raises his head, eyes too blue to be natural.

“It’s okay, Peter,” Chris says nonsensically. Breaking apart has never been Peter’s favorite thing. 

“Of course it’s okay,” Peter snaps hoarsely. “Why would you think I wasn’t—”

Chris shuts him up by dragging Peter’s fingers across the growing bruise on his neck. His own bite mark is rapidly fading, but the bite itself had never been the important thing. “Tell me, Peter. Tell me how long it’s been since you’ve let go enough to do this. Tell me your teeth haven’t ached for this for days.”

Peter does not answer him, not with words. He slips his hand from Chris’ neck and goes to his jeans instead. “You asked if I still remembered.” His eyes are hooded, thoughts hidden behind a careful veil as he looks at Chris solemnly. “Sometimes I think it was the only thing I could remember.”

He slithers down Chris’ body, unzipping his pants just enough to free his cock. It is left to Chris to kick them the rest of the way off and bare himself entirely to Peter’s too intense gaze.

“Do you have any idea what it was like, Christopher?” He runs a finger down Chris length contemplatively. “Being in a coma? I was awake, despite what they say. I was awake, and I couldn’t move, and I have never been sure whether it was that or watching my family burn that finally drove me insane.”

“You’re not insane, Peter,” Chris gasps out, head falling back as Peter follows the path of his finger with his tongue. At least not entirely.

“Oh but I am. Don’t be fooled; you should know what you’re taking to bed, Argent.”

Chris twists his hand savagely in Peter’s hair, and a satisfied grin spreads across Peter’s face. “Christopher.”

Chris loosens his grip and trails his fingers down Peter’s nape and across the last, final indents of his teeth. “Better.”

“Hmm,” Peter hums. “Best, I think.” Then he really sets to work, sliding slick and hot around Chris. Peter sucks dick like some men pray to God. Worshipful and fully engaged and pliant to instruction. His throat relaxes to take Chris deeper and he digs nails into Chris’ ass. Chris bucks, fucking Peter’s face exactly as Peter had intended, and Chris acquiesces and plays along. Peter never takes his eyes from Chris as his lips crack raw and spit runs down his chin and bliss slowly overtakes his expression.

“Jesus, Peter.” Chris flings an arm over his face as Peter pushes him right to the edge and then keeps him riding it for what seems like years. But when he finally tries to shove him over, Chris’ bites hard on the inside of his cheek. Blood fills his mouth and his orgasm recedes. Peter lets go with a pop and sits back on his haunches, a small pout painting his face.

“Later, if you want. But not before.”

“You’re greedy, Christopher. I like it.”

Chris stands and hauls Peter to his feet. “I don’t think you’d be happy with anything less.”

“Probably not.”

Chris’ nerves buzz with the need surrounding them, feeding off the each of them in a repetitive loop, and scrambling to find its end.

“I thought about you in that coma. Quite a lot, actually.” Peter’s tiny smile is too close to pained now, and Chris buries his face in his neck. He leaves small, biting kisses, one after the other, as if he can somehow sooth remembered agony.

“I thought about your body. Your mouth. Your smell and your taste. Those short moments where I thought I remembered being happy. It really had been so long I couldn’t be completely sure. Even before the fire I’m not sure I was seeing colors anymore.”

He sighs as Chris finds a particularly sensitive spot, rolling his head to the side. “But remembering you helped distract me from the hell of my own body. Enough so that I could piece together the fact your sister had set the fire. And plan how I was going to butcher her. So I suppose I should thank you for that.”

Chris draws his lips from Peter’s neck to his ear to his mouth. He kisses him deep and wet and oh so gently. It goes on and on, Peter slowly sinking into it until he’s limp and pliant in Chris’ arms. He’s hard again, dick catching and sliding along Chris’ as they sway and shiver and Chris allows himself to simply savor the grace of it for countless seconds.

Finally he pulls back, plants his hands on Peter’s shoulders, and shoves. Peter falls back, landing on the bed with a soft bounce. He props himself up on his elbows, come hither smile calling filthy to Chris.

“Time to remember exactly what we’re forgetting about that motel room.” He crooks a finger at Chris.

Chris shakes his head as he approaches. “I’m disappointed, Peter. You’re aiming too low. I feel certain we can put them entirely to shame.”

“Oh, I do like the way you think. Now, are you coming, or not.”

“Eventually,” Chris smirks. But instead of following through, as Peter no doubt expects, he returns to his knees at the edge of the bed. Peter’s legs are still hanging down just as he had fallen, and Chris cradles one of his feet in his palm. The sole is peppered with tiny slivers of glass, worked partially out by Peter’s healing factor but trapped by the insistence of sharp edges. 

Chris carefully cleans them away, depositing the shards under the edge of the bed, to be swept clear in the morning. When the first sole is glass free he presses a kiss to the heel and trades it for the other. He takes just as long with this one, brushing away the dried, flaking blood that has collected around the wounds.

Chris pulls one final shard of glass from his heel, then runs his thumb over the wound as it closes. “You shouldn’t have done this to yourself.”

He can almost _hear_ Peter rolling his eyes. “I told you, it was an accident.”

Chris crawls the rest of the way up Peter’s body and onto the bed. Peter’s hands are lying loose at his side, and Chris picks one up. He spreads it open over Peter’s stomach and touches the dips between his fingers, where too, blood has pooled and dried. “You shouldn’t have done this to yourself.”

Before Peter can lie again, Chris straddles his hips and pins him down. “You _won’t_ do this to yourself again. Do you understand me?”

Peter remains silent and Chris sharpens his voice. “Peter.”

Peter wraps his ankles around Chris’ calves and heaves, flipping Chris and reversing their positions. He presses down against Chris, rutting into the divot of his hip and says coolly, “I hope you don’t expect you’re just going to give me orders and I’ll run to obey.

He slides his hands up the inside of Peter’s thighs, spreading them so Peter’s kneels over him, cradling his hips. “I would be disappointed if you did.”

“Then I’m glad we are agreed.” He regards Chris for a brief moment then tilts his head. “I could promise you, but it might be a lie.”

“It won’t be a lie. Not this time.” Not with Chris there.

Peter doesn’t answer. Instead he puts his fingers to Chris’ lips, stroking over them until Chris opens his mouth and wraps his tongue around them, as greedy for the taste of Peter’s skin as he had been for the taste of his cock. It doesn’t bother him that that flavor is mixed with a hint of Peter’s blood; it’s just another part of Peter and not even the first time he’s had his blood in his mouth.

Peter groans, luxurious and drawn out, planting his free hand on Chris’ chest and rolling his hips so that their cocks slide together. Lightening shivers up Chris’ spine and he grabs the lube from the table, pulls Peter’s fingers from his mouth with a wet pop, and wraps them around the small bottle.

“Have you ever opened yourself up for someone? Let someone watch as you twisted your fingers inside you? Had them tell you how good you were doing, how perfect you looked, as you stretched yourself wider to make space for them? I want you to do that for me, Peter. Open yourself up for me.”

Peter says snidely, “I don’t think now is the time for trading sexual histories,” but even as he says it he’s uncapping the bottle and squeezing a generous portion onto his fingers. He sweeps his tongue over his lower lip and, palm back on Chris’ chest to hold him steady, reaches behind himself.

His mouth falls open as he works the first finger in, eyes fluttering and lashes brushing against his cheeks. Chris watches, spellbound as Peter takes his time, stretching and twisting and gasping as he gradually relaxes into it. Sometimes his eyes are closed, in concentration or with the inability to fight the intensity of the sensation. But sometimes they are open, watching Chris watch him. Watching as Chris’ breathing picks up and his hips begin to shift as restlessly as Peter’s. But Chris does not even consider rushing him. The wait is its own exquisite reward, the anticipation and the pleasure of watching Peter at his most vulnerable as he begins to unravel the thread of his own self control.

Finally Peter removes his fingers with a wet, squelching noise that would be gross in any other circumstances, but here and now makes Chris groan through gritted teeth. Peter raises an eyebrow and Chris stares heavily back, not breaking his gaze as he lifts his arms above his head and wraps his hands around the slats of Peter’s headboard.

“Show me, Peter.” 

Peter impales himself on Chris’ cock slowly, oh so slowly. Each new give of Peter’s body drags forth another sound. A sigh. A gasp. A groan. Peter drops his head as he concentrates on breathing through the invasion, mouth parted, small gasps of air panting out. He is breathtaking, entirely captivating, and Chris has been freely given a front row seat to this perfection.

He’s enthralled with the tiny changes on Peter’s face, with the minute twitches and eye flutters. So much so that he’s almost distracted from the feel of Peter surrounding him, tugging him in deeper, squeezing him tight in delicious, scalding heat. Almost.

The twin pleasures - watching Peter, feeling Peter - are spiced with the heady sense of _finally_. It does not matter that they have apparently done this before. It does not matter that in a time beyond time he has already gotten to see Peter fall apart. This is the moment that matters. This is the moment that will last. They are older. Wiser. Able to better withstand the whims of fate. He must truly let go of the past if there is to be a future.

There are beads of sweat on Peter’s temples when he finally bottoms out. He moans, low and drawn out, and finally raises his head. Chris makes no attempt to hide the emotions coursing through him, any more than he attempts to hide his lust. Peter’s face goes raw, crumbling down into something vulnerable. He shifts, small, shivering sensations shooting through Chris with each move. Chris whimpers brokenly, and Peter cards a hand through his hair.

It is not lost on Chris that this is the first time all night that Peter has touched him in a way that is not explicitly sexual.

“I like you like this,” Peter murmurs, slyness rising to mask the softness. “Stretched out and subject to my whims. Maybe I’ll keep you like this. Grab some rope and tie those wrists up for real. I’m not sure you’d be quite so pliable then, hunter.”

Chris stretches languidly, rolling his hips and causing Peter’s breath to stutter. “Restrained isn’t the same as helpless, wolf.” Then he settles back down, tightening his grip on the slats. “Peter.” Peter’s fingers curl into his chest before spreading wide so that his pinkies brush Chris’ nipples. The muscles in Chris’ arms jump.

“But I don’t mind being subject to your whims. For now.”

And oh, how Peter takes him at his word. Lets Chris take his weight on his chest as Peter begins to rise and fall and fuck himself on Chris’ cock. Chris stays as still as he possibly can, doing his best to make good on his word, although there’s little he can do to stop the twist and arch of his hips as Peter bears down.

Peter moves cautiously at first. Experimentally. Trying to find the best angle and slide. Bows his head and plants his hands and circles his hips without regard for what he might be revealing. And god, he reveals so very much. Chris can tell exactly when Peter hits the spot he is looking for.

“ _Ahhhh_ ,” Peter’s hands clench and his eyes roll to the back of his head and Chris has to fight the urge to grab his hips and drag him back down over and over again. Instead a tumble of encouraging words spill from his lips.

“God, Peter. Yes… _fuck_ …take it…anything you want…everything…you feel so good…tight and hot…Christ, the inside of you!”

Peter leverages movement with his knees, drops hard and fast to bottom out. The movement punches the air from both their lungs and they gasp in tandem.

Peter likes it fast. Hard and rough and moving at a pace that has Chris clinging to his sanity by the edge of his teeth. But then he changes, drags each move out small. Every move is steady, in perfect time. Except when it is not. Except when his rhythm stutters and breaks and he still on a gasp and waver. Like whatever he is feeling is almost too much.

And it is glorious, so Goddamn glorious, as he takes everything he needs from Chris, and more. Peter’s arms are trembling, his hair stands matted and wet, and his movements are so small each slide is a million sensations packed into a shivering breath. Peter has stopped trying to look away, stopped doing anything more than watch Chris watch him.

Finally, Chris can take no more. “Peter,” he says, rough and questioning.

“Yes,” Peter gasps back. “Oh, God, yes.”

Chris surges forward, wrapping his arms around Peter and tugging him to his chest. He takes his mouth and plants his feet on the mattress and thrusts deep and solid. Peter cries out, and thrusts back. Despite the violence of their bodies, despite the mutual fight and push and pull toward orgasm, their kiss is soft. Gentle. A request and a plea and a boon freely given, all at the same time.

Chris licks the inner curve of Peter’s cheek and then struggles to breath as Peter clenches tight around.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” he whispers, then welcomes Peter’s tongue swiping across his bottom lip.

“We are, Christopher. We are.”

He laughs, a fragile, desperate sound, and Peter laughs with him, a short, bell ring. It is joyous, open, and Peter does not attempt to stifle it. Surrounded by it, Chris begins his slow, easy slide to orgasm.

“Petie, Petie, Petie,” he chants quietly, cupping Peter’s ass and lipping his neck and feeling where Peter’s body stretches to give him entrance. He traces around the swollen flesh. Peter breathes, “ _Oh_ ,” and buries his face in Chris’ chest and Chris is lost. Gone. Barely aware of Peter spurting hot on his belly as Chris fills him up and marks him his.

_Mine_ , he mouths without words, presses it into Peter’s flesh without giving it the life that would render it dead before its time.

They lay there, panting, as sweat cools and cum turns sticky and euphoria calms to something more steady, more lasting. Finally Peter groans, running a hand through his hair in some inane attempt to straighten it. He looks sated, fucked out, exhausted.

Chris does not fight the heady satisfaction that floods him.

“Christ, Christopher,” Peter raises his head and rests his chin on Chris’ chest. “You really _did_ improve with age. And you weren’t too shabby to start with. Oh my, Christopher! Is that…is that a _blush_?”

Chris grabs a pillow and buries Peter’s head under it. “No. No it is not.”

Peter seeks revenge by digging his fingers into Chris’ armpit and yanking on his underarm hair. Chris howls and shoves Peter off, momentarily forgetting the fact they are still connected.

Peter hisses at the discomfort of the withdrawal and shoots him a dirty look. Then he flops over on his stomach and points toward the side table drawer.

“Clean me up, Christopher,” he demands imperiously, petulant pout full in place. “It’s the least you can do.”

Chris snorts and opens the drawer and does as Peter commands.


	25. Chapter 25

Allison paces between Scott and Isaac, seated on opposite sides of Ms. McCall’s living room couch. It’s a good thing it’s a Saturday, rather than a school day, because there is no chance any of them would be going anywhere near Beacon Hills High. Peter and Chris are not even awake yet. Or at least they have yet to show their faces. Allison had heard quiet voices through the walls in the early hours of the morning, so she suspects they are simply taking advantage of the fact neither of their older counterparts are anywhere to be found.

Hence the reason Allison had been awake at obscene hours. And is now wearing a hole in the already worn living room carpet. Ms. McCall had stuck her head in once or twice, and Allison had seen her through the kitchen door, talking quietly on her cell phone to who knows whom, but she’d offered no advice or commentary beyond putting cereal out and telling them to help themselves, and now even she is gone, off to her shift at the hospital.

“Why don’t you sit down? He’s not gonna show up any faster with you pacing.”

She smiles tightly at Scott. “I’m fine.”

Isaac says nothing at all, chewing steadily at the bracelet on his wrist as she walks back and forth, back and forth, back and forth.

“Where _is_ he?” She finally bursts out.

Scott reaches out and takes her hand, tugging her gently, but firmly to sit next to him on the couch. She goes, not because she can’t get away, or because she really wants to sit, but because he has her cell phone. She tucks her legs beside her and plucks it from his lap. No new messages. She throws it down on the cushions and Isaac pats her foot comfortingly.

“He didn’t say _anything_.” It is starting to feel like the ghoul hunt all over again, except the pit of her stomach says this could be even worse.

Only three hours between when he had dropped Peter and Chris off and when he had walked back through the McCall door, but _something_ had happened in that short period of time. Something that had caused his eyes to be far away and his brows to be drawn and his fingers to work restlessly at his sides. It is not grief, exactly, although that would make the most sense, given the events of the previous day. (Gerard is dead, and unlike when Peter had murdered her aunt, Allison does not mourn at all. Except maybe for the fact she knows they are going to move again. Her father had looked too torn apart for it to be otherwise.)

He smiles at her, a thing that tries to say all is well but can not quite hide the sadness peeking out of the seams, then deviates to the kitchen, where Ms. McCall waits. Allison trails at a distance, the sounds of four boys playing _Let’s Dance_ almost drowning out the adults quiet conversation.

“Did you find him?”

Her father nods.

“Was he—”

He shakes his head.

“So everything is —”

He shakes his head again.

“I won’t ask—

“--Thank you--”

“But I’m not gonna turn you down if you want to fill me in.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

She looks at him then, with the same kind of stare she sometimes gives Scott, while her father’s fingers continue to tap at empty air.

“Do you want a beer? I’ve got connections with the local sheriff, you know. One call and he could be here, all that confiscated alcohol in tow.” Her eyes are sparkling and even the corners of her father’s lips turn up. Allison could almost wish Ms. McCall was the person to replace her mother, if not for the fact it would make things terribly awkward with she and Scott. She wants her father happy, but she has her limits.

The tiny smile slowly fades. “Thanks, Melissa, but it’s getting late. I still need to find a hotel for Allison and the boys. Unless Allison is planning on staying?”

“What happened to Peter’s loft?”

He just shakes his head again, and Melissa’s eyes widen. “Oh. Chris,” she starts softly, but then seems to change her mind, her voice turning cajoling. “Why don’t you just stay here tonight? We’re already planning on Isaac. He’ll just crash on the floor of Scott and Allison’s room, so the juniors can take the spare and you can take the foldout.”

Allison pulls back behind the door frame, just in time to keep her father from seeing her as he suddenly narrows his eyes and turns his head toward the opening.

“Does that ever strike you as odd, Melissa? The three of them?”

_What_? She peeks back around the frame, and even more confusing is the knowing look in Ms. McCall’s eyes as she nods and gives a tiny smile. “A little bit, yeah. But none of them have ever done easy, have they?”

“I guess not. I worry.” He slumps back against the counter, and from this angle he looks even more exhausted than she had thought. He must not feel the need to wear as much of a mask in front of Ms. McCall.

“We can cross that bridge when we come to it. _If_ we come to it. I don't even think they realize. Don’t we have enough confirmed things to panic over?”

Allison doesn’t understand why she and Scott’s friendship with Isaac would worry anyone, now that none of them are trying to kill the other, but she’s more worried about the half spoken sentences at the beginning of the conversation, and why her father can’t seem to talk about Peter at all.

“So you’ll stay?”

“And add two more kids to eat you out of house and home? I don’t think so. We’re fine, Melissa. _I’m_ fine.” Allison isn’t convinced, and Melissa certainly is not.

“It’s really not a request, Chris. And we’re doing much better these days. You wouldn’t know anything about that unexpected promotion I got last month, would you?”

Her father clears his throat and doesn’t quite meet Melissa’s eyes.

“That’s what I thought. Christopher Argent, I do not need handouts, and I do _not_ need someone strong arming my job into—”

He holds his hand up, and for the first time Allison realizes there’s a fine tremor to it. Maybe Melissa is only realizing it, too, because she shakes her head. “Okay. Okay. We can discuss it later. But you _are_ staying.”

She doesn’t think her father gives in so much as doesn’t have the energy to keep fighting her. “Okay. But you’re letting me order takeout.”

“Of course. I never turn down Chinese.”

Stiles manages to show up at the same time as the takeout, and it’s only when she’s halfway done scarfing down a plate of honey sesame chicken that she realizes her father has slipped from the room. She finds him, not in the house, but in the backyard. Once again she finds herself hiding in the shadows, unwilling to intrude on something she doesn’t understand.

He has his hands in his pockets, and his head tilted up toward the night sky. His lips are moving around words to small for her to read. Every line of his body is tight, but what really catches her off guard is his face. It’s full of a longing so intimate it embarrasses her to see. She looks down at the steps, and by the time she looks up again, he’s on the move.

Back and forth, back and forth, from one side of the tiny yard to the other. Every once in a while he scrubs his hands through his hair, the movement jerky and taut with some unknown emotion. The ritual repeats, seemingly ad nauseum, and she’s just about to step from the door when he reaches the the fence one final time and stops, gripping the wooden posts tight as he simply stares at nothing. Ten seconds, thirty seconds, and then he’s whirling toward the house, moving so fast she barely has time to duck back inside and grab her plate from the counter before he’s striding purposely into the kitchen.

He walks straight to the refrigerator, opens the door, and pulls out a beer. He fishes a bottle opener from a drawer, pops the cap, and drains it in one long pull. She catches Isaac staring just a bit too intently at the way his Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows, so she clears her throat and kicks his foot and glares until he gets the hint and looks intently down at his plate. Beside him, Stiles snickers behind his hand, so she kicks him, too.

“Hey!”

Her father drops the empty bottle into the recycling bin and walks over to where Melissa is leaning against the stove, watching him. “I need you to keep an eye on them for a bit.”

Her smile is wry and aware. “I know.”

He starts to say something but then stops. He briefly puts his hands on her shoulders and squeezes, and then he’s out the door and gone. He hadn’t looked at the rest of them once.

“Well,” Melissa says brusquely, clapping her hands together, “Who’s up for Netflix and popcorn? And no, Stiles, this is not your opportunity to force Scott to watch _Star Wars_.”

* * * * * * * * * * 

From the kitchen, she can hear the soft sounds of Stiles, talking on his cell to Cora. It won’t be long before Chris and Peter emerge, looking for food, and as much as she had been willing to back the rest of the pack in helping them, she does not really want to spend time watching them canoodle. Especially with their newly minted fucked out status. Last night had been bad enough. And neither does she want to have to deal with their reaction to her father not having come back last night.

“He’s fine, Allison. He had a lot on his mind yesterday. What with them and, you know, the other thing.” Scott fumbles a bit, trying not to mention _it_.

“You mean Peter murdering my grandpa.” Not that she’s thought of him as anything other than Gerard for months, but she’s feeling quite unreasonable at the moment. Scott looks vaguely horrified she’s put words to it, while Isaac looks vaguely satisfied. She feels something akin to a mixture of both.

“I just think it’s weird he’s not bothered. The young one. Not your dad. Er…sort of.”

“I guess,” she answers, chewing on her pinky nail as she tries to decide how worried she should be. “I think it’s complicated.”

“It’s not complicated,” Isaac offers, surprising them both. He starts chewing at his bracelet again, until he realizes they’re peering at him, waiting on him to expound.

He drops his hand to his lap. “Peter did it so now Chris doesn’t have to. He saved Chris from having to choose. He was strong so for once Chris didn’t have to be. Come on, you can’t have missed that Chris usually takes the lead with them.”

Scott nods, and Allison supposes it’s probably true. Even though at first glance he seems to give into every whim of Peter’s, Peter has never failed to back down if Chris truly pushes. Maybe it’s because he does it so rarely that it takes Isaac pointing it out for her to see it. Maybe that’s what being an anchor means for them.

“But he _killed_ Mr. Argent’s dad. That’s kind of drastic.”

Isaac shrugs. “Yeah. He’s sad that his dad’s dead. But he doesn’t really connect it to Peter.”

“I don’t get it.”

Isaac grins and shakes his head, his curls bouncing, and puts his arm around Allison so he can pop the back of Scott’s head. “You’re not supposed to.” He rests his arm on the back of the couch and tips his head back to join it. “You’re too well adjusted for that.”

Allison and Scott exchange glances and then lean their heads back as well, propped on Isaac’s arm. For a long moment they all stare at the ceiling, none of them speaking.

“Hey,” Allison starts. She rolls her head to first one side and then the other, so she can look at both Isaac and Scott before returning to the ceiling. “Do you think it’s weird that the three of us—”

She’s interrupted by the first bars of Beyonce’s _Run the World_. Lydia. She snatches her phone from the couch.

“Hey.”

_“It’s there. You owe me. I skipped the opening sale at Macy’s for this.”_

“I’ll make it up to you.”

_“Good. I expect you and Scott to double with Aiden and I next Thursday. Opera.”_

“But Scott and Aiden _hate_ —”

_“And that’s why it’s called paying me back. Gotta go. Love you.”_

“Love you, too. And thanks.”

She puts the phone in her lap.

“What’s there?” Scott asks the obvious question.

“Dad’s SUV. In the parking garage of Peter’s building.”

“You had Lydia run reconnaissance??” Isaac shrieks. Totally out of proportion to the situation, Allison decides.

“She was already in the area!” She answers defensively. “It made sense!” She jumps to her feet. “Okay, let’s go.”

“Go _where_?”

“To check on my dad. You saw Peter yesterday. Something’s not right.”

“Something’s never right with Peter,” Scott shoots back. But he climbs to his feet regardless.

After another minute Isaac does, as well, but she’s almost sure she hears him mutter, “We’re gonna regret this,” under his breath.

She sticks her head in the kitchen to tell Stiles to keep an eye on the juniors, then grabs her keys and pulls Scott and Isaac out the door.

* * * * * * * * * * * *

A slap across his face wakes Chris abruptly from a deep sleep. He starts, barely keeps from bellowing out, then cracks first one eye, and then the other. He gingerly peels Peter’s hand from his face and rolls to his side. Peter is sprawled on his stomach, loud, uneven snores emitting from his slack mouth. There’s a small puddle of drool on the sheet.

A deep fondness wells up in his chest. As quiet as he can, he fishes off the side of the bed for his pants, and when he finds them he pulls out his cell phone. The missed calls and messages he ignores. Instead he snaps a photo of Peter and sets it as his wallpaper.

Peter’s hair is disheveled, from sleep, from last night. Chris twines careful fingers through it and brushes it from his face. Peter sighs but doesn’t wake and Chris puts his hand to his own mouth, fingering the smile that has appeared.

So foreign. So familiar.

He leaves Peter to his sleep, padding to the en suite. He curses as soon as he sees the floor. More glass. No mirror. Of course Peter would prefer to destroy himself before giving anyone else the chance. Well that ends today.

He picks his way through the glass, opening drawers until he finds a spare toothbrush. When his teeth are cleaned he crouches and cleans up what he can of the mess, thoughtfully rubbing his fingers over the smears of blood. He considers a shower, but rejects it for the moment. Right now, this morning,with his scent all over Peter and his teeth in Peter’s neck, it doesn’t seem wise. Peter, for all his consent, had never quite lost the wariness in his eyes, and Chris has all too much experience in what that wariness means. He won’t make the same mistake he’d made more than twenty years ago. Won’t assume Peter just knows Chris is all in.

Instead, he cleans up as best he can, pilfers Peter’s closet for a pair of pajama pants and a soft, heather gray t-shirt, then returns to the bed. He kneels beside Peter.

“Peeeeter,” he sing songs. “Time to wake uuuuuup.”

Peter mumbles sleepily, then grabs one of the many pillows and buries his head underneath it.

Chris strokes an open hand down Peter’s back. “Come on, Petie. Rise and shine.”

A muffled “No,” emerges, followed by a grumpy, “Fuck off.”

Still not a morning person. Affection rises so strong it almost chokes him. He waits a few seconds, until Peter settles back in, seemingly thinking Chris has given up. Chris darts out a hand, grabs the pillow, and rips it away. “Morning, sunshine.”

A spat of curses greets him. Peter rolls to his back and flings his arm over his eyes. “Oh my God. I hate you.”

Chris snorts. “No you don’t.”

Peter slowly pulls his arm away from his eyes and stares unblinking at Chris. “No,” he finally says, unsmiling, “No, I don’t.”

Chris’ heart lurches, and he knows Peter has to hear it, but he’s careful to keep his expression mild. Peter takes a long time looking him over, lingering on his left shoulder and his neck, and when his nostrils flare wide, Chris knows he’d chosen right in skipping the shower.

Peter finally flops back, tucking his arms behind his head. “Why,” he asks casually, “am I awake at such an ungodly hour? And do you always pilfer your liaisons’ closets?” Which is Peter speak for being pleased at seeing Chris in his things.

“My clothes were dirty. And it’s almost 9AM.”

“As I said, crack of dawn.”

“I’ll make it worth your while.”

“Oh really?” Peter’s lascivious smile makes it quite clear how Chris can pay his debt. Chris leans in close and skims his lips across Peter’s jaw, gratified when Peter immediately tilts his head and bares his neck. This. This has always been his. He repeats his actions of the previous night, rubbing his cheek into the tender skin, until it’s red and warm and so sensitive Peter hisses when Chris pulls back and blows on it.

“I’ll cook pancakes while you shower.” Peter looks swayed, but not totally convinced. “And then we can try out the bed in my room.” Scent him here, scent him there. Imprint both his den and Chris’.

“Will there be hash browns? And preserves? Not that nasty jam business you bought the children.”

Chris huffs a laugh. “Absolutely.”

“Well then.” He sits and flounces and tucks a pillow to his middle. “Fine. You’re forgiven.”

Chris presses his nose to Peter’s temple. “Don’t be too long.” Then he makes his way to the stairs, pulling Peter’s t-shirt on as he goes.

“I’ll take as long as I want,” Peter calls petulantly after him, and Chris’ grin stays on his face all the way into the kitchen.

* * * * * * * * * * *

Chris is flipping the last batch of hash browns when he hears the shower cut off. He’s starving, so he’s sure Peter must be famished, which is his justification for the mounds of food covering the table. Definitely not nervous cooking. He adjusts one plate a quarter of an inch to the right, then straightens the silverware. After a few seconds he shifts the plate back.

Peter is pacing around upstairs. He’s mapped Peter’s bedroom, and from the layout in his brain, Peter is moving from bathroom to closet, to bed, and back to closet. He predicts Peter has changed outfits at least three times in the minutes that have passed. He would like to believe it’s because Peter is nervous, too, but it’s more likely he’s picking the right suit of armor in case it becomes war.

He lolls against the counter, carefully projecting an air of lazy contentment, and waits for Peter to descend. When he emerges from the deep cave of his room, he’s dressed similarly to Chris, in loose cotton pajama pants, but minus the shirt. Chris breathes out a gusting sigh of relief.

The doorbell rings, and Peter freezes, foot hovering over the first stair. He draws back and retreats half a step, until he’s half in and half out of the darkness.

This is not the time. Chris is not ready for this. Not right now. Not before breakfast. Nevertheless, he’s outwardly calm as he pushes upright.

“I’ll get it. You should come get a plate. The hash browns will get cold.”

It’s Allison, flanked by Scott and Isaac. She looks worried, and they look worried about _her_ , and there’s really nothing else to do other than step back and let them inside. Peter keeps his place at the top of the stairs.

“Allison. Scott and Isaac. Do you want some breakfast?”

“Dad, I was worried.”

He opens his mouth to sooth her concern, when Scott - dear, sweet, going to soon be _dead_ Scott - wrinkles his nose and blurts, “Oh my God, you smell like—” Then his eyes widen and he snaps his mouth shut, obviously realizing what a monumentally _stupid_ thing he was about to do. Of course it’s too late.

Allison whips her head toward Scott, while Isaac looks between Peter and Chris and grins idiotically wide. “Smells like what?”

“Oh! Argent,” Peter exclaims, as if he had only realized they were there. “You’re already awake. We should get back to following up those leads, don’t you think?”

Peter is trying to give him a generous gift, Chris realizes. Trying to give him the chance to keep this secret, cover it up. Because he assumes Chris would want it so.

So Chris looks Allison in the eye when he answers her question. “He was going to say I smelled like sex. I smell like Peter.” He refuses to look at Peter. Refuses the urge to see what is his reaction.

Allison freezes, although if he had to pinpoint it, he’d say she looks less shocked and more…disappointed. He fights the urge to rise to his own defense. Behind him, he can hear the sound of Peter retreating to his bedroom. To leave him to his own devices. To hide from the consequences. To respect his right to weave his own tale. With Peter, it could be any of those. Or all of them.

“Dad?” She expects an explanation. Deserves one. He had just thought he would have more time before he gave it. More time to know exactly what there was to say. But he’s always had to play the hand he has been dealt.

“Scott, Isaac, if you could give us a minute? There’s a coffee shop on the ground level.”

He knows they won’t actually go, will linger in the hall so their hearing can pick up what transpires. Knows Peter will still hear every word exchanged, even in the darkness of his room. He doesn’t mind. In this situation, it is the appearance of privacy that counts. And he doesn’t really care who hears.

“Sure, Mr. Argent.”

Allison waits only until the door clicks shut before swinging toward him. “Dad! What are you—”

“Allison, sweetheart, you need to understand—”

“No! No, I don’t! Them? Them I can understand. I get them. But you know what he is now! You know what he’s done! How can you even— How can you even touch him?”

She’s confused. So very confused. Because there is black, and there is white, and she’s only just starting to understand the gray. And despite everything, she still idealizes her father.

He wishes he had thought to make cookies. To preempt this conversation with a peace offering. Instead, he chooses honesty.

“You think I’m too good for him. You think I deserve better. Better than a murderer. A sinner. A _vargulf_.”

“Yes!” she cries, and he wishes he could avoid this next part. Wishes he could remain the relatively untarnished counterpart of Gerard and Kate and even Victoria in her mind. But lying and omission has done nothing but damage their family. And bravery requires truth.

“That’s only because you don’t understand. You don’t know what I was before your mother. Not really. Can we…Can we sit down for this?”

She crosses her arms stubbornly. “No.” It is times like this that she reminds him she is truly Victoria’s child.

“Okay. Listen…listen to me. Peter left. You know that. Peter left and then we left, but I always believed he was coming back. But he didn’t. I waited and waited, and he didn’t. It took a year. A whole year. But I finally realized he wasn’t. I wasn’t worth coming back for, just like I’d always known.”

Her eyes are wide and angry and he reaches out a hand to cup her shoulder. “It wasn’t true. I know that now. But I was eighteen and stupid and grieving. And if all I was good for was being a soldier, then I was going to be the best goddamn soldier ever.

“I gave up, Allison. On making my own choices. On being what Peter had said I could be. I became the very best hunter ever. The best soldier Gerard could have ever wanted. I shot where ever he wanted. At whoever he wanted. I didn’t care. Man or woman. Guilty or innocent. I never asked. I just killed. For two years. I killed and I drank and I slept my way through most of the states. Anything to dull the pain I was holding. Gerard didn’t care, as long as I did what I was told. For once he was _proud_ of me. And I liked that for once he approved.”

“But you changed.” It’s pleading, like she needs to believe it. Needs him to reveal the gotcha moment.

“I did. But not on my own. We were in Georgia. Macon. A family of werewolves. The parents were killing humans. It was bad business. The police were closing in, and if they were caught and exposed…well, you can imagine the public’s reaction. Hunters serve more than one purpose. Gerard and I found them first. Took out the parents. Then we found the kids. Three of them. Youngest couldn’t have been more than 10.”

The sentences shoot out, short and sharp like bullets. He’s not really seeing her right now, but a bedroom in a tidy farmhouse. There are posters of George Michael and Madonna on the wall and a green comforter with little yellow flowers on the bed. He has blood spatter on his face and smears of blood on his jeans where he’d wiped his hands dry, and behind him Gerard looks similar.

In the corner a teenage girl is crouched protectively, arms spread wide to shield the boy and girl huddled behind her. Her eyes glow yellow and her claws are out. She knows what they are here for, even if Chris himself hasn’t realized yet.

“Nits breed lice,” Gerard says, and Chris starts. He’s only ever heard that out of the mouth of racist pricks on TV shows, so at first he thinks he’s misheard. The girl doesn’t. She lets out a low growl and tries to spread her arms even wider, eyes darting from the bed to the window to he and Gerard.

“It’s okay,” he tells her. “Don’t be scared.” Then he looks over his shoulder at Gerard. Chris has grown taller in the last two years, filled out in the shoulders. He looks down at his father these days. “What?”

Gerard doesn’t take his eyes from the trio in the corner. “What do you think they’re gonna become when they grow up? They already hate us for doing what had to be done. You can see it in their eyes. They knew what their parents were doing. Didn’t try to stop it. The killing is in their DNA.”

He puts his gun down and Chris thinks he has simply not understood. Then Gerard pulls out a small pouch of mountain ash and begins to draw a thin line between the children and every escape route. Chris stands frozen, unable to process what he knows is happening, and in his inaction the teen springs at them. Makes a run for the unmarked path and Gerard.

She does not get far. Gerard casually raises a hand and backhands her. She goes flying backwards, the two children she attempts to protect crying out as they run to her side. She scuttles toward them, grabbing them by the arms and shoving them under the bed.

“What are you _doing_?” Chris reaches for the bag, for Gerard, and Gerard springs to his feet, suddenly in Chris face.

“What do you think we’re doing, boy? Our _jobs_. Do you want to be the one to tell some grieving mother that her child is dead because you were too weak to do your job?”

Weak. Weak. _Weak_. He _is_ weak. Unfit. Because he cannot make his hand move. Cannot do what a hunter should and finish the monsters, simply because they wear the face of children. Cannot do what his gut shouts he should and turn the weapon on his own father. All he can do is stand frozen and think a mother’s children are about to be dead because he is too weak to do anything at all.

“Christopher.” His father’s voice is an order. An imperative.

Chris’ hands shake and he’s not sure if it’s from the need for drink or from fear. “Don’t call me that,” he says low. 

“It’s your name, boy. Your grandfather’s name. Time to live up to it.”

Chris shakes his head. “No.”

“ _Do it_.”

“They’re innocent! Look at their eyes! The Code—”

“They are _monsters_. Whether here or in ten years they _will_ kill. It’s all they know. We hunt those who hunt us. And they _will_ hunt us.”

“They’re children.” It is the first time in ages he has even attempted to fight back. The words are clumsy on his tongue from misuse and uncertainty. His father is the best hunter he knows.

“Pick up your weapon. And _shoot them_.”

Chris raises his gun. Stares at it as if it is a foreign thing. Looks between Gerard and the girl. She is stretched out over the gap between bed and floor, tears rolling down her face as she whispers comforting words to her hidden siblings.

“ _Christopher_.”

Chris aims and flicks off the safety. Meets the girl’s eyes.

“Please,” she whispers.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers back.

The bullets won’t kill her, but they will poison her. The swords across their backs…that’s what will finish the job. For all three of them. They’re only children. He’s only twenty. Life will never be fair.

He steadies his hand. Tightens his grip.

And all at once he does not see her, but Peter. Peter, trembling and afraid as he stared down at Chris. Chris, fresh off a kill and triumphant and brave. Peter, who he had promised to keep safe.

He drops his arm, then lets his gun clatter to the floor.

“I’m sorry,” he tells her again.

“ _Christopher_!” Gerard rages. Chris turns from the room and brushes past him.

“You walk out that door and you are no longer my son! You are no longer worthy of the Argent name!”

Chris does not look back.

* * * * * * * * * * *


	26. Chapter 26

“So you didn’t kill them.” Allison’s face is shining, self righteous satisfaction.

He blows a long breath through his nose, and wishes for a cigarette. “I didn’t save them, either. Gerard killed them. You have to know that. The only thing I did was excuse myself from making the hard choice. I am still as culpable in their death as he.”

“But you didn’t do it! That has to count for something!”

“I was a coward, Allison. And I knew it. That’s _all_ it counted for. I let the loss of Peter steal everything, because it was easier than creating a new future. Because I had no reason to be strong without him. Because I had never built anything on my own that wasn’t somehow tangled in him!” 

“You’re the strongest person I know!”

He smiles wryly. True or not, it’s nice to hear. “But I wasn’t then, sweetheart. Or I didn’t think I could be. They’re not that far apart. I got in my car and I drove until I couldn’t drive anymore, and then I found the cheapest motel I could find that still had a bar. For three weeks I did my very best to drink myself to death. And that’s where your mother found me.”

There is more to it than that, of course. There always is.

* * * * * * * * * * * * *

The knock on the door jerks him from sleep. He groans, rolling onto his side and cradling his pounding head in his hands. His mouth is coated in fuzz and there’s cotton stuffed where his brain should be. The knock comes again, and beside him there’s a grumpy mumble.

“Tell them to go away.”

He squints, trying to focus enough to make out the features of the man beside him. He has a vague memory of dark hair and blue eyes, the thought that there’s a bit too much muscle but not really caring.

“Uh…” Mornings after tended to be awkward when you couldn’t remember people’s names. Which was why he almost always encouraged them to leave in the wee hours of night. He must have really been shit faced last night. Of course, he’s shit faced most nights now. There’s a distinct possibility he’s actually still drunk. 

“S’Michael. You can make up for it by paying for breakfast.”

Chris has no desire to make small talk. The sick feeling starts creeping back in. He needs a drink.

“Listen—”

There is a loud crash as a door throws open. Chris flings himself toward the side table, to the gun stowed there. He fumbles it, and when it hits the floor it goes off, burying a bullet in the wall opposite.

Michael scrambles back, pressing into the headboard. “What in the—”

“Really, Chris? This is pathetic. You could be dead ten times over.”

The voice is familiar. He tries the squinting again, and this time the shapes of the room resolve themselves. Tweed pants. Green silk jacket. Shoulder pads. Red hair, cropped far shorter than the last time he had seen her.

“Vickie?”

Michael clears his throat and raises his hand. “So, ah…”

“Get out,” Victoria orders, not bothering to look at him.

“Is she your _wife_?” Michael clutches at the blankets and looks between the two of them in horror.

“I said _get out_.”

Victoria has no weapons that Chris can see, but he has absolutely no doubt she is the most dangerous thing in this room. Michael agrees, pulling on his boxers and gathering his clothes at record speed. He doesn’t even bother putting them on, just clutches them to his middle and practically runs from the room.

Victoria closes the door quietly behind him and turns her glare back to Chris.

He flops onto the bed. “Go away.”

“No.”

“Haven’t you heard? I quit. Go ask MacArthur.” Now that had been a good two weeks, hunting with the MacArthur clan for a coven of vampires. Mac is just as young and self destructive as he, and they had spent the two weeks fucking and drinking and killing, right under the nose of their puritanical parents.

“I’m not hunting. And no one just quits.”

“Well I did. And why are you _here_?” Christ, he needs a drink. His clothes are scattered across the floor of the room, but fuck it. If she’s going to barge into _his_ room, and kick out _his_ one night stand, she can live through an eyeful. He rolls out of bed and strolls across the room toward a bottle of whiskey. He picks it up and takes a swig, then leans back against the bureau, smirking in his nakedness.

Victoria looks him up and down and rolls her eyes, unimpressed.

“You gonna answer me?” He takes another drink and lets it burn down. The sickness is fading away, so he takes another for good measure. “Like you said, I’m pathetic. Can’t imagine I have anything you’re looking for. I mean, unless—” He spreads his arms wide, in a lewd proposition.

Victoria closes her eyes and gives a tiny shake of her head. “I didn’t say you were pathetic. I said _this_ was.” She sweeps her arm around the hotel room. “The alcohol, the fucking, the _smell_.” She sniffs delicately and curls her lip up. “You’re better than this, Chris Argent.”

“Nah, I’m really not.” He grins roguishly. “Haven’t you talked to my father?”

“Yes, actually.”

That brings him up short, and he sets the bottle down before it falls from his suddenly nerveless fingers. In the entire three weeks, he has heard nothing from Gerard. And it isn’t as if he had taken care to cover his tracks. If Gerard hasn’t come after him, it is because he does not want to.

“What?” he asks stupidly.

She starts to sit on the edge of the bed, makes a face and reconsiders, then sits anyway. She pats the spot beside her. “Sit.”

He has nothing better to do, and with the alcohol still seeping out of his pores, he ambles over and obeys, leaning back on his palms. He has to piss, and it’s making him half hard, but it doesn’t seem to phase her. Then again, nothing ever seemed to phase Vickie. She sits primly beside him, but he isn’t fooled. He’s seen her crack a werewolf’s neck between her thighs.

“Your father sent me to find you.”

“But _why_? And why not come himself?” It isn’t like Gerard to deny himself the pleasure of dragging Chris out by his ear, of humiliating him. It has been almost two years since the last time Chris has been hit; Gerard’s hand _has_ to be itching right now.

She twists toward him. “He wants us to get married.”

“ _What_?”

“He thinks it will make a good alliance. My parents agree.”

His face keeps contorting, cycling through the expressions of horror and disbelief and confusion in various orders and repetitions. “But you don’t even _like_ me!”

She shrugs one shoulder. “I don’t dislike you, either.”

“But… _why_?”

She stands and strolls over to the bureau. “It makes a kind of sense. I’m a good hunter and I’m going to be a good leader. And you’re trying to stray from the fold. Your father wants you back in line.”

“I’m not interested in hunting anymore.” He speaks through clenched teeth, desperately trying to keep the nausea at bay.

“No,” she states calmly, “you’re just not interested in hunting like Gerard anymore.”

She pours herself a tumbler of whiskey, then brings it and the bottle back to the bed. She hands the bottle to him and returns to her seat beside him. Both of them drink in silence, him side eying her dumbfoundedly and wondering why she’s so calm.

“We’re going to do it,” she says, rolling the glass in her hand.

His entire mouthful of whiskey spews out of his nose. He howls and crumples into a ball, keeping the bottle clutched carefully upright against his chest as his nasal cavity burns and tears stream down his face.. “Oh God, oh God, fuck, fuck, fuck. Jesus, are you trying to kill me?!”

She patiently waits until he gets himself together and then kicks his boxers at him with the toe of her shoe. “This is the part where you get dressed.”

He grudgingly pulls them up his legs. “We’re not going to do it.” He is remarkably sober now, considering.

“No, we are. And I’ll tell you why.”

“Please, enlighten me.”

She smirks and raises her glass to him. “Because I don’t want to hunt like Gerard, either. Or my parents. Or any of them. All they ever teach us is The Code, The Code, The Code. And every single one of them breaks it. That’s not law. That’s not order. We’re no better than _them_ if we do that.”

Her words are full of vitriol, a reminder that even having known Peter, she would never have accepted what he was. It is not normal to see one’s natural enemy as anything but. He needs to remember that.

Victoria moves on, her cold fury focused on her own words. “You’ve got Winchester running around with no Code at all, and no one is doing anything about it. We’ve stopped policing ourselves. How can we expect shifters to do it if we don’t? And he’s dragging that kid around and putting a gun in his hand!”

Chris frowns at that. “But that’s how we were—”

“And it was wrong. Nobody should be forced to do this before they can choose! That’s how you get sociopaths. Do you really want Kate killing people now? Even Supers? Do you want that for your own kids?”

He thinks of Katie, already training at 12, already deadly. Already begging Gerard to take her out on hunts.

Gerard loves it. Loves the way she doesn’t even question the rightness of their cause. Is proud of her in a way he had never been of Chris.

He thinks about the look he sometimes sees in her eyes, when she brings down bobcats and wolves and deer. Hobbling them rather than killing clean, so she can practice the killing blow in close quarters.

“No,” he answers. “But what can you do about it?”

Her eyes light up triumphantly. “I’m going to change it. And I want you to help me.”

Which again begs the question. “ _Why_?”

“You’re a good soldier. And a good hunter. At least when you’re not like this. Our families are some of the oldest. The most respected. People will listen when we talk. And—” here she grins a little and nudges his shoulder. “—I don’t entirely dislike you. Which is more than I can say for most people.”

He jostles her back, mind racing with the possibilities. “I don’t entirely dislike you, either.”

“See? A perfect match.”

This was something he has never planned for. Family. A wife. He has had vague thoughts of dying young. Hopefully in a way that brought honor to the Argent name. That had not always been his vision, but after Peter—

He forces his mind away from the name. That is not a part of his life anymore, and if he and Vickie are going to do this, he has to be done with childish imaginings. With wallowing. Maybe he is not good enough for Peter, and maybe he is not good enough for Gerard. But he is good enough. This thing with Vickie, he can do. Maybe make it so they are the last generation that is purely fodder.

His brain has been so cluttered the last three years, boxes spilling open and refusing to close, but now it is time to clean it up. With effort he gathers his thoughts, reorganizing contents and shuffling storage. At last, with one final twist of his heart, he shoves everything Peter into an airtight lock box and fastens the latch. It will not be opened again.

He looks Victoria in the eye. “But how do we start?”

“We do what our parents want. We get married. Let Gerard believe you’ve repented. That I’ve brought you back to the fold.”

He shakes his head. “I won’t live with him.”

“We have to. At least at first. He has to trust you again. We have to let him integrate us as his heirs apparent.”

She’s right. He knows she is. He’s gained something of a reputation these last few years, not all of it good. Still—

“But not with kids. You don’t know what he’s like with—” He breathes deep and stops talking. She looks at him appraisingly, and as much as he wishes otherwise, he thinks she reads what he’s not saying. There’s no pity in her eyes, and she doesn’t ask him to explain, but she does nod firmly.

“No, if there are children, we leave. But by that time, he’ll let us go. See us as extending your name instead of dividing it.”

“And then?”

“And then we start talking. Not to them. Not to the old guard. To _our_ guard. I’ll start with the the Henderson’s. With Maria. And you’ll go to the MacArthurs. To the son. I know you have a good rapport with him.

He starts and stares, and she laughs. “You think I didn’t do my research before coming here? I didn’t have to say yes.”

“Was I the only option?”

“You mean am I doing the best with what I’ve been given?”

“Something like that.”

“I’ve been asked before. Granted, not by my prospective spouse’s father.”

“My father can be a little—”

“Medieval? But it doesn’t matter. I chose you because you were the best option.”

He’s already made up his mind, but he won’t lie and say that her words don’t make the decision easier. “Okay.”

“Okay, what?”

“Okay, I’m in.”

She looks pleased for one brief moment, which for Victoria means she’s probably ecstatic. He needs to learn to read her better.

“Good. But I have conditions.”

He snorts. “Of course you do.” He gestures for her to continue.

She grins, and he’s reminded that she actually has a wicked sense of humor behind the grim, focused exterior. “It’s really just one. You know how important family is to the community. I can’t have you running around fucking everything that moves. They won’t respect you if you do. You have to act like this is an actual marriage, not just a partnership.”

“It _is_ a marriage. And I wouldn’t have anyway.” If there is one thing Chris understands, it is vows.

The pleased look is back. “We’re going to be unstoppable.”

Her confidence in infectious; her fearless ability to lead has always been something he respected. He won’t mind following her.

“Ah—” He looks at the phone, mocking him on the nightstand. “Should I call him? Or were you planning on doing that?” He takes another hefty swing, just in case she says yes.

Her sip from her glass is a bit daintier, at least until she goes for another, throwing back the entire thing. “I think _you_ should take a shower. Maybe get disinfected as well. I’ll take care of Gerard and check us out.”

“Check us…?”

“Of course. You and I have been holed up here for weeks, don’t you remember? Screwing like rabbits after you proposed. It’s all in the guest register. You can check if you like.”

He shakes his head, bemused. “Of course it is. Did you even consider I might say no?”

“Of course not. I wouldn’t have bothered if I had.”

“Well, I’m glad I didn’t disappoint.” He’s halfway to the bathroom when her voice rings out. 

“You need to get the drinking under control. I need the hunter, not the drunk.”

He takes a healthy drink from the bottle still clutched in his hand and keeps walking. “That wasn’t one of your conditions.” She might lead, but he won’t be a puppet. He would be useless to her if he were.

When he’s safe in the bathroom, he locks the door, stares himself down in the mirror, and dumps the rest of the bottle into the toilet.

* * * * * * * * * 

“So…what?” Allison breaks through his musing and he realizes he’s been silent too long. “Mom found you and told you to get your crap together? And then you married her?”

He huffs. “Something like that. Let’s say she reminded me of what we really do.” He’s eager to get back to his original point, but he understands this detour is important for her. One day they’ll sit down and he’ll tell her how it really was, how he and Victoria grew together and learned together and made their own mistakes together. And how deeply he came to love her. But for now he will tell her this. “You probably don’t see your mother and Peter as having much in common. And in a lot of ways they don’t. But they taught me two of the most important lessons in my life. Peter taught me I could be more than my birthrite. And Vickie taught me I could do that on my own.”

Despite the seriousness of the conversation, a small giggle slips from Allison.

“What is it?”

She shakes her head, grin lingering. “You called mom Vickie. It just sounds funny.”

“Oh. Yeah. That’s all she used to go by.” And then the time had come for them to start swaying the families to their point of view. And “Vickie” fell by the wayside because Victoria garnered more respect. Each step had been carefully choreographed in those early days. And they had come so close to achieving their goal. More and more families had joined them. Turned their backs on Gerard and his generation. And then a rogue alpha had called them back to Beacon Hills. 

“We all changed from those days.”

Allison’s face hardens. “Some of you more than others.”

“Allison…there is just as much blood on my hands as his. Very little your aunt did that I didn’t also do at one point. And unless you’ve been ignoring me the last ten minutes, you know it. And I have worked the majority of my adult life to rectify that.”

“See? _Exactly_. You’re at least _sorry_. He doesn’t even—”

He cuts her off. “But even if that wasn’t the case. Even if I had never let Gerard control me, never took a life unjustly, it wouldn’t matter. Because this isn’t a competition. He was my best friend and I love him”

From upstairs, he hears something crash to the floor. Chris looks, unflinching, at his daughter. “And neither of those things depends upon some litmus test of equivalent morality. That’s not the way it works. That’s not the way I work. I wouldn’t be worthy of _him_ if I did.”

“Mom would be horrified!”

He doesn’t think a single word he’s said has had impact, and the silence from upstairs is rapidly becoming deafening. This wouldn’t have been the way he would have chosen for Peter to hear it, but he won’t hide this from Allison, like it’s something he’s ashamed of. He’ll deal with the fallout instead.

“You’ve eluded to that before. And you’re right. She would be. And you’re entitled to your own feelings, too. You’re entitled to hate this and never accept it. But you do have to accept that your feelings aren’t going to change mine. And they won’t stop me from choosing this. I love you. I will be as open with you about this as possible. And I hope we can come to some peace about this. But I’m not going to take it back or pretend it’s not there.”

She stares at him for a long minute, jaw clenching repetitively. “Fine.” She whirls around and stalks out the door, slamming it behind her. The reverberations echo in his ears long after the sound has actually faded away.

He pulls out his phone and sends a text to Scott, then runs a tired hand over his face. He had walked into this knowing it would not be easy, but letting Allison walk away still hurt.

“You didn’t have to do that.”

Peter glides down the stairs, stopping at the bottom step. He’s changed into street clothes and it takes everything in Chris to keep from shaking his fist at the sky. 

“Yes, I did.” He takes a step toward Peter, but when Peter takes a matching step backwards, Chris stills.

“You _shouldn’t_ have done that.”

“No?” He could understand if Peter looked angry, or ready to lash out. If there was sarcasm on his tongue or an attempt to deflect the threat of too much intimacy, pushed too soon. But Peter is standing still, almost preternaturally so, Adam’s apple bobbing, with a voice that is flat and resigned. Peter looks…consigned to some unknown fate. Ready to flee.

“No. Not without knowing all the facts.

“Is that so?” He sits on the arm of the couch and waits, respecting Peter’s need for distance.

“Yes, it’s so.” Peter casts his gaze toward the ceiling then sighs. “I told you I was late. And I was. But it was because I wasn’t going to come back for you at all.”

Peter is watching him closely, but Chris has decades of experience in keeping his face blank.

“You were right. I did walk away, and I didn’t look back, and I had no intention of doing so.”

“Why?” It makes as little sense now as it did then; he supposes that is why he held out hope for so long.

“Talia.” Peter half smiles before it fades. “I don’t know that I ever told you.” He chews and releases his bottom lip before continuing. “She never knew about us. I’m sure of that. But she knew how I felt about you. Had known for years. It was before I realized how much I needed to hide from her.”

Talia would have given Gerard a run for the money. Perhaps that’s why Gerard decided to take her out.

“She knew I would have wanted to stay in contact with you. Even if she didn’t know the extent. When we were packing to leave she told me I shouldn’t.”

“Her opinion never swayed you before.”

Peter purses his lips, and stays firmly where he is. “She’d never gone for my Achilles heal before.”

“Which was—?

Peter rolls his eyes and shakes his head. He may as well have called Chris an idiot child. “You. What else? She said I was a danger to you now. That with Deucalion on our tail you could get in the crossfire. Because if you knew I was in danger you would come to me.”

That was most definitely true. Talia, like Gerard, never lied if she could help it.

“She said I was going to get you killed. She said if I was really your friend, if I really cared about you, I would let you go. She told me about the way Deucalion had killed the first hunters who went after him. It was very convincing.”

The Emmerich family. How Gerard had learned of Deucalion. Chris remembers those Polaroids. Even steel spined Gerard had had a hard time keeping his dinner down.

“When,” Chris asks carefully, “did this conversation take place?”

“I knew. I knew when I went to our meeting place before the cabins. I knew when I promised to come back in two weeks that I had no intention to. I knew if I didn’t, you would know something was wrong. You would have figured out I was in trouble. You would have _died_.” Peter’s fingers are curled tight around the banister. There’s a creak, and a crack, and Peter takes a deep breath and slowly relaxes them, one by one.

“So yes, I lied to your face, and made sure you believed it, and I knew it was a mistake the minute I walked away. But I thought…for once I could be unselfish. For once I could do the right thing. And I was unselfish for an entire month. For an entire month where I could breath less and less. Where I found myself curled up in corners, shaking and clinging to doorknobs to keep from going to you. And then one night I woke up. Both figuratively and mentally. I woke up and knew had to get back. No matter what. And I got dressed and I didn’t tell Talia and I ran and ran and ran.

“I ran all the way back to Beacon Hills. It took me three days. And you were gone.”

And every message Chris had left, conveniently vanished. He feels it is good that Deaton is so very far away at the moment.

Peter tilts his head to the side with a small mockery of a smile. “I didn’t blame you. Not _really_. You had no reason to stay. The lack of even a note, though…that did…upset me. It…confused me. I thought we had—” It looks like it physically pains Peter to say, to admit. Then he grimaces.

“But I knew in the end it fell on me. Everything that happened then. Everything that happened after. It was all because of my colossal fuck up. Because I listened to _Talia_ of all people. Because I was weak.”

He doesn’t elaborate whether the weakness was in the lying, or in the coming back. “Things became…worse…after that.” Again, no elaboration, although Chris can guess. Peter seemingly shakes the mood off, and makes a grandiose gesture with one hand. “Look at me, Christopher, taking responsibility for my actions. What _is_ the world coming to?”

Chris neither laughs, nor answers, and Peter’s black humor smile fades. “So you see? You really shouldn’t make those kind of declarations without knowing the facts. You might just regret it. Now, if you hurry, you can still catch her.”

Chris closes his eyes and shakes his head, before pushing himself up from the couch. “Peter,” he says, doing his best to keep the laughter from his voice, because he knows Peter, knows it would insult him. Although Chris is himself a bit insulted that Peter has such little faith in him. He gets over it, because he also knows Peter’s apparent lack of faith has more to do with his view of himself. 

And it had meant something to Peter to decide to tell him.

“You murdered my sister. Not to mention my father If that didn’t keep me away, why in the world would this? Some stupid mistake you made because we were young and dumb and we trusted the wrong people. Christ, Peter, this isn’t so fragile as that. I’m not so fragile as that. I’m sorry you heard it that way; it wouldn’t have been my choice. But it was true when I said it, and it’s true now.”

He watches Peter warily, ready to step up if he attempts to bolt. Peter blinks, brows drawn tight, and Chris realizes he really had thought his story would make a difference. Maybe had even counted on it. Armor comes in all forms.

Peter finally moves, and the step he takes is forward, off the stairs, not back toward his room. “Oh. Well then.”

He ambles nonchalantly toward the kitchen, as if no other destination had ever been a possibility, and Chris lets out a silent breath. He follows him, taking the opportunity to ogle his ass as he goes. Peter bypasses the table in favor of the refrigerator, and as he reaches for the orange juice he says casually—

“Me, too, by the way. You know, that thing you said.”

Chris drags Peter up, pins him to the door, and kisses him deep. “I know.” He buries his face in Peter’s throat. “I know.”


	27. Chapter 27

Allison walks out of Peter’s apartment, a picture of calm control. Scott exchanges a glance with Isaac as they fall into lockstep beside her. It’s not like they hadn’t heard the entire exchange between she and Mr. Argent, and even if they hadn’t, he has Mr. Argent’s text burning a hole in his pocket; they both know Allison is anything but calm. But Argents use control like armor, and sometimes like a weapon, and Allison is drawing upon it to keep herself together.

Scott hates it. Wishes she did not feel the need. But his love for her is without conditions. He only hopes one day she feels safe enough to know he will never see her as weak.

She keeps her stiff upper lip all the way out of the building. All the way back to Scott’s house. She does not talk and he and Isaac do not know how to break the silence. Isaac leans up from the back, poking his head between the two front seats. He is worried; Scott can smell it on him, even if he was not already well versed in Isaac speak - almost as well versed as he is in Allison - and can easily read it in the furrowing of his brow and how he casts quick, furtive looks between the two of them.

Scott wraps a hand around the back of his neck and lightly squeezes. _It will be okay_ , he mouths, and Isaac nods and settles, although he keeps his place between them.

They go back to Scott’s, because right now he’s the only one that actually has a house, not to mention the juniors and most of the people they call friends seem to have gathered there. There’s strength in numbers. In pack. There’s a raucous game of Call of Duty going on in the living room, seven teenagers - including Lydia - all hurling insults and boasts as they vie back and forth.

It mostly continues as the door shuts, but at the click, Stiles and Lydia immediately look up. Lydia’s jaw clenches as she takes in the look on Allison’s face, and Stiles looks between the three of them and starts to put his controller down. Scott shakes his head. The last thing Allison will want is to draw attention and if Stiles and Lydia stop, it won’t be long until everyone else notices, too.

The two of them narrow their eyes in that eerie synchronization that always reminds him they have more in common than most people think. Lydia wants to ignore him, more concerned about Allison than his opinion, but Stiles finally puts his hand on her arm and nods to Allison.

Her lips are pressed together and trembling, and Isaac is hovering, half between throwing himself in front of her as a shield - although what she really needs protection from is not in the room - and snarling at Lydia. Isaac’s emotions are almost always too big for the rooms he inhabits.

Lydia makes another face but concedes, turning back around and delivering a murderous assault on the split screen. Peter yells while Danny hoots and Chris and Aiden share a high five. As the three of them sneak away up the stairs, Peter tackles Chris to the floor and frogs him in the shoulder.

When they reach his room, Allison collapses onto the bed, curling into a ball with a pillow clutched at her middle. He scootches in beside her, rubbing the space between her shoulders that is always too tight, and because of his focus on her, it takes him just a minute to realize Isaac is not longer with them.

He finds him hesitating at the bedroom door. “Should I—” He jerks his thumb back toward the stairs and the cacophony in the living room.

“Huh? What are you talking—” He had not considered Isaac would do anything else but stay, but he stops short when he realizes it really isn’t about what he thinks, but what Allison wants. He nudges her. “Babe? Should Isaac—?”

When she lifts her head, the corners of her eyes are wet. “No.” She beckons to him. “Please stay. You’re the only ones who know.” With that, she finally breaks, tears streaming down her face and sobs ripping from her throat in heart wrenching cries. Isaac moves fast, closing the door safely behind him and joining them. He sits on the opposite side from Scott, so they’re bracketing Allison like parenthesis, and gingerly pats her hair.

“It’s okay. It’s okay.”

Scott wants to say a lot of things. Wants to tell Allison he’s sorry she’s upset. Wants to tell her he doesn’t understand how Mr. Argent could still love Peter, either. But he also doesn’t understand the relationships between Lydia and Aiden and Danny and Ethan, either, but they’ve accepted those, so he thinks eventually they’ll learn to accept this one, too. And the instinctive part of him that leads his pack, the part that gets larger and larger and a little more pragmatic every day, wants to tell her Peter will be easier to control with Mr. Argent holding the leash. He’s a little horrified at that particular part, and the rest of it can wait until later, so the only thing he really does is keep his mouth shut and lie down facing her.

She immediately rolls into him, still sobbing, and he wraps his arms around her and tugs her closer. Across from him, Isaac looks supremely uncomfortable, his hand left balanced in the air once she’d moved away. His eyes dart around the room and he draws his arm back into his lap. 

“I should— I should go. Don’t worry, I’ll, um, I’ll sleep at Stiles’ tonight. We’ll, uh, we’ll take the juniors with us. You probably don’t…you probably don’t want them—” He stutters off and starts to slide away.

Allison’s arm shoots out and locks onto his wrist and she twists to see him. “Please don’t.” Her nose is red and swollen and her voice comes out garbled. “Please. I need you to stay.”

Isaac darts a glance at him, eyes wide and panicked, and Scott shrugs. It’s Allison’s call, and it just makes sense, so he doesn’t see what has Isaac alarmed. “You should stay,” he confirms. “You help.”

Isaac doesn’t say anything at first, but Scott has had Allison’s pleading eyes turned on him before, and he’d challenge anyone to hold out against them. Isaac is no exception.

“Okay.” He kicks off his shoes and mirrors Scott’s position, curling on his side, facing them. Allison lets out a sigh and turns back into Scott, but her hand stays securely fastened to Isaac. He doesn’t move any closer to them, but he closes his eyes, whispering, “It’s okay, Ally. It’s okay,” over and over again as Allison continues to cry.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * *

When Scott wakes, the light coming through the window speaks of early afternoon. He doesn’t know when exactly he drifted off, except that it was long after Allison had cried herself into exhaustion, and only a little after Isaac had joined her. They’re both still out, Allison’s skin blotchy and swollen from tears and Isaac’s eyelashes resting long and lush against his cheeks. He’s shifted closer in sleep, the hand Allison still relentlessly holds now resting on the curve of her waist.

Something on the ground by the door catches his eye. It’s a TV tray, holding bottles of water and what smells like peanut butter and banana sandwiches. There’s a note that he can just make out.

_Did they fuck? Call me when you wake up. We took the juniors to Nico’s_.

A grin creeps across his face. Stiles is pretty much the best friend ever and nothing is ever going to change that. He doesn’t know why his friendship with Isaac has never threatened that, except as close as they are, it’s just…different. The same way his relationship with Allison, as all consuming as it can be, could never supplant Stiles. They just occupy different places. 

It’s a weird tangle of thoughts, and he’s glad when Allison’s eyes slowly open and interrupt them. She looks better, less torn apart than before, like the crying has helped purge something. She smiles, small and soft.

“Hey.”

“Hey.”

He curls his arm around her shoulders and kisses her hair. Beside them, Isaac mutters and stirs and then awakens all at once. He freezes when he sees his hand on Allison’s waist. 

“Sorry,” he mumbles, jerking it away and breaking Allison’s grip. Scott watches, bemused, as he scrambles for something else to say before his eyes alight on the food by the door.

“Oh man, Stiles is awesome. When he isn’t being a dick.” He’s reached the food by then, and he wisely crumples the note before Allison can read it. Scott and Allison rearrange to sit cross legged as he brings the tray back, and he tosses them both bottles of water before joining them and sitting the tray in the middle.

“Weirdest combination ever,” Isaac says as he tears into the first sandwich. “But so damn good.”

“It’s from Elvis,” Allison pipes up.

“What?”

“Peanut butter and banana sandwiches. They were Elvis’ favorite.”

“Huh.” Isaac hands her a sandwich. “You feel better?”

Allison nods and takes a bite. Scott watches the interaction, something warm and settled in his stomach as he takes his own sandwich.

“I’m embarrassed.” She finally says, sandwich just crumbs now. “I don’t know why I fell apart like that.”

“Um” Isaac says, ever the picture of tact, “because your dad had sex with the guy who killed your aunt?” And before Scott can stop him, he tacks on, “Oh, and your grandfather, too.”

“ _Isaac_.” Scott hisses. But Allison just shakes her head.

“No. I mean, yeah, I guess that’s part of it. But I kind of knew it was coming. I could— I could see it. Dad’s _different_ with him. And he’s different with dad. It’s just—” She clenches her fist and then relaxes it.

“He wasn’t even sorry! He didn’t act like he was embarrassed at all. If he had seemed like he was even remotely ashamed of being so— so— argh!” She throws her hands up in the air.

“But he isn’t sorry,” Isaac says plainly. “Why would he be?”

“Because he had sex with the man who killed my aunt! Not to mention tried to kill me!”

“Also your grandfather,” Scott adds. Since they are making lists.

“Oh, nobody cares about that!” she snaps.

“Your dad cares,” Isaac offers.

“Which one?” she responds flippantly. If her sadness has turned to irritation, everything really is going to be okay.

“Both. Although I guess Chris technically isn’t your dad yet.”

“So if they both care, then he should be ashamed! Just a little bit! It’s polite!”

“So….” Scott says slowly, both eyebrows raised. “You want him to act like he regrets it so you’ll feel better.”

“Yes! He keeps changing the rules! Things were finally good!”

“I don’t think,” Scott says cautiously, “that things were finally good. At least not for him.”

Her capitulation is sudden and surprising. “I know.”

“Then why—”

“Why can’t he just date a nice person?!”

Isaac shrugs. “Because he doesn’t love a nice person.”

“Why _not_? My mom was a nice person!”

Scott very carefully looks at a small tear in his comforter and lets Isaac take this one.

“Same reason why Lydia loves Aiden and Danny loves Ethan and Derek loves Jennifer. We’re all kind of screwed up. Although—” he cocks his head and considers, “—an argument could be made that neither Derek nor Jennifer are very nice.”

“Do you really think he loves her?” Scott has a hard time wrapping his mind around Derek loving anyone after the number Kate did on him, much less Jennifer Blake. Who has a disturbing amount in common with Peter Hale. Although Jennifer had only tried to kill them once. Peter is a repeat offender.

“Yeah. Don’t you?”

“But _why_?”

Isaac shrugs again and flops back on the bed. “Did you not hear the screwed up part I mentioned earlier?” He doesn’t seem bothered by the observation at all. Scott supposes screwed up is kind of their normal. He probably would not have survived this whole thing if his friends weren’t all a little screwed up. Even the more normal ones.

“I mean, you only have to look at me, right? Although that’s really not fair. It’s hard to see the screwed up for the adorable.” Isaac’s tone is humorous, but he’s staring at the ceiling as he says it.

“Hey, come on.” Scott grabs his arm and drags him back sitting. “I like your screwed up.”

“Oh!”

The exclamation comes from Allison, but when he looks over, she’s staring intently at her sandwich, and picking steadfastly at her crust.

“What’s wrong?”

She shakes her head and stuffs the rest of the sandwich into her mouth. It’s kind of an amazing feat, and he stares as she chews and chews and chews, and keeps her eyes on her lap. It’s only after she finally swallows the last bits and chugs an entire bottle of water that she looks up. Looks up and looks him right in the eye. She chews at her bottom lip before she speaks.

“My dad loved my mom. I believe him when he says that. But I also don’t think he ever stopped loving Peter. Not really. Do you think it’s possible to love two people at the same time?

He considers. “Yeah, sure. I mean, I’m pretty sure Stiles’ dad still loves Claudia. But I’m also pretty sure he loves my mom, too. We’re just waiting on that announcement.”

“Okay, yeah, but…she’s dead. What if my mom was still alive when the juniors showed up? Do you think my dad could have still loved both of them? Somehow made it work?”

Scott can’t help it. He barks out a pained laugh. “No way. Your mom would have stabbed Peter way before that happened.”

“Okay, okay, maybe. Probably.” Allison looks like she’s trying to make sense of a calculus problem. Scott darts a look at Isaac for some kind of support, but Isaac looks just as confused as he feels.

“But what if…” Allison scrunches her nose in that cute way that always makes him want to kiss her, but this time he refrains, because she _has_ inherited her mother’s stabby hands. “What if it was before. What if Dad and Peter ran way together when they were our age. When my mom was still Peter’s friend. What if she had helped them? Do you think then—? Do you think they might have grown to—? Do you think he could have loved both of them then?”

“Ah…” he’s somewhat at a loss. “I guess. Maybe. Although your mom and Peter both seem like the possessive type.”

“But we’re not, right?”

“Well, I did kind of try to kill Jackson when—”

“Oh my God, I’m not talking about on full moons! Do you think it’s possible?”

“I said yes! Maybe they could have made it work! Why are you asking weird questions? You’re making me nervous!”

“But what about us?” She’s staring at him intently, like his answer is very, very important. And somehow not hypothetical.

“Is this a trick question? I love you, okay? Truly, madly, deeply, with all the weird werewolf things that involves. Is this one of those things Lydia asks Aiden, just so she can get mad and cut him off for—”

“It’s not a trick question! I know you love me. I know you love me. I just want to know if you think it’s possible we could love more than one person at the same time. If we could make that work.”

He looks at Isaac for help again, but Isaac doesn’t look as confused anymore. Instead he’s looking between the two of them with such a look of fearful hope that it’s almost painful to see. And Scott does not know what that is about, does not understand it anymore than he understands Allison’s direction, but something about it makes the words come out, calm and sure.

“Yeah. I think we could.”

Allison nods and smiles, a bit tremulous, a bit afraid. “Okay. Okay.” She takes his hand and then reaches out for Isaac. “There’s something I want to talk about.”

* * * * * * * * * *


	28. Chapter 28

_1986_

He avoids Peter as best he can. Suggests to his dad they do extra training over the weekend so it’s impossible for Peter to contact him. When Monday comes, he keeps his head down as he walks into class. Bolts out of class with a mumbled excuse. Doesn’t go to his locker. Skips lunch and hides out in the office, sweet talking the guidance counselor with questions about the college applications he has shown no interest in in the previous six months. She’s thrilled. He doesn’t really hear a single word she says.

All he can hear is the pulsing music at the club. All he can see is that blond…that blond _interloper_ putting his hands all over Peter. All he can imagine is pulling him off, beating the shit out of him, and dragging Petie out of that place. Taking him somewhere warm. Somewhere with a soft bed and clean sheets and just the two of them. Kissing him and whispering things to him and replacing anyone else’s scent with his own. Things kind of fade out after that, because he’s not totally sure what comes after. If Peter was a girl, sure, but Peter _isn’t_.

Peter isn’t, and he knows from his dad that that should be the wrongest thing here, but it doesn’t feel wrong, anymore than it had felt wrong staying friends with Peter after finding out he was a shifter. The thing that’s the wrongest, the thing he’s hiding from, is Peter figuring it out. Because he’s not what Peter wants. Chris would know. Peter would have said. It was okay when it had stayed in Chris’ dreams. When he’d been able to brush it aside as one of those weird things sleep brain mixes up. A crossing of the wires. But somehow now it’s out. Fully formed. He can’t fixate on his best friend. He can’t. He can’t ruin the one good thing he has. Can’t let Peter know.

He can fix this. He can make it go away. He likes girls. He likes girls. He does like girls, he knows that’s not an untruth. But _god_ does he like Peter. His dreams last night had been filled with it. With chasing after Peter. With catching Peter. With Peter pushing him away and laughing. Rolling his eyes and mocking him. Except sometimes he didn’t. Sometimes he pulled Chris closer. Sometimes he slid his hands up Chris shirt and ran his tongue along his jaw and whispered filthy things in his ears.

Chris had woken up sticky and covered in sweat, and had had to tiptoe shamefacedly to the bathroom to wash up. He’d had to pass his father’s room to do so, and he could only imagine his father’s fury should he find out Chris’ double failure. Still seeing Peter as a friend rather than quarry, and now wanting to do unnatural things with him. Would it bother his father more that Chris wanted a werewolf, or that said werewolf was male?

It really doesn’t matter. Either one would end up with Chris bleeding and on the ground.

His avoidance strategy holds out until school is out. He’s in the locker room, just sitting on the bench. Staring at his hands and waiting for the noise in the hall to clear out. Basketball is done and soccer has yet to begin, so he’s left alone, safe with his thoughts.

Except all at once Peter is in front of him. His face his a mixture of concern and anger and Chris swallows around the lump in his throat.

“What’s wrong?” Peter asks, and as his lips shape around the words Chris can’t help but remember how Peter had used those same lips as seduction Friday night. Biting them, licking them, forming flirtatious quirks as he’d lured blondie in as much as he’d allowed himself to be lured. And anger is so much easier for him to deal with than fear and desire.

He stands and shrugs. “What do you mean?” He grabs his book bag and slings it over his shoulder. “I gotta get home.”

“You’re avoiding me. And you know it. Is something wrong? Did I do something to piss you off?” He’s half laughing as he says it, because the idea is ridiculous. No amount of fighting has ever kept them out of each other’s spaces. Then the laughter disappears. “Did Gerard do something?”

He’s too close now, as he leans in to look for bumps or bruises, and all Chris can see is he and blondie pressed close in the smoky darkness, Peter pushing Blondie’s head away before he can touch his neck, but drawing him back in for a filthy kiss.

The words that come out are not what he plans to say, although in retrospect he’s not sure he had had a plan. “Did you fuck him?” The words are vicious. Weaponized. Hollow point bullets that unerringly find their mark.

Peter stumbles back, looking wildly around them. “What?”

“Did—you— _fuck_ —him?” Chris spits it out, low and grinding, hands curling to fists at his side.

Peter gaze flickers to them and then back to Chris’ face. The expression on his face morphs from confusion to realization to horror to _fury_. “You _followed_ me? You fucking creeper!”

“I thought you were in _trouble_. Because you _lied_. Answer the question!”

“Yeah.” Peter smirks, mean and taunting. “Yeah I did. Let him bend me over right in the backseat of the van. It was _hot_. That what you wanted to know?”

The words slam into Chris, like the worst uppercut he’s ever received from Gerard, and as soon as he can breathe, he comes back swinging, even as his brain screams at him to stop, stop, stop. “You lied to me. This whole time you’ve been nothing but a fucking liar. Acting like you’re just like everybody else. When the whole time you’ve really…you’ve really…” words fail him as the anger starts to drain away, and he hitches his back pack higher. 

“What? When the whole time I’ve really liked dick? Is that what you wanted to say? When…when exactly should I have told you that? When we first met? When I didn’t even really know?” Peter’s smirk is gone and his smile is instead a pained thing. “The first time you hooked up with a girl and were so proud to brag about it to me? The first time you dragged me out on a date with one of your girlfriend’s best friends and she stuck her hands down my pants and I let her because otherwise someone might _know_? Or maybe that time in health class when Beacher said the fags were trying to kill us all with AIDS, and everyone just nodded along? Was that when I was supposed to say something?

“Don’t use that word,” Chris mumbles helplessly. “Mrs. Martin said that’s an ugly word.”

“Why? That’s what I am, right? A fag? A queer? A ho-mo-sexual.” Peter grins viciously. “It’s okay. I’m not ashamed of it.” He doesn’t quite meet Chris’ eyes as he says it, even if the words are filled with confident bravado.

Chris swallows. “So you only like boys.”

“Yes, Chris,” Peter says pedantically, “I only like boys.”

“I like girls,” Chris says automatically, but it comes out sounding defensive.

Peter closes his eyes and shakes his head. “Yes, Christopher, I am well aware you like girls. I promise you are as safe today as you were yesterday, and the day before. I have no interest in hitting on you. I’m kind of discriminating like that.”

Right. Of course. Chris had already known that. He’s not the kind of person Peter would want. His thoughts are a tired, mixed up, jumbled mess. _God_ , he has to get himself together.

Peter is watching him with narrowed eyes. “Christopher…” It sounds almost like a plea, and as he says it, he stretches out his hand. 

Chris skitters out of reach. “I gotta go.”

Peter drops his hand. “So that’s it,” he says flatly. “It was fine when I was just a werewolf, you know, just the hated enemy you’ve been trained your whole life to kill. That’s a-okay, you can accept that. But a fag, now, oh no, that’s just crossing the line.”

Chris stops in his tracks. “What are you talking about?”

“Just,” Peter waves his hand tiredly, a look of defeated acceptance on his face. “Just go. I’m fine. I’ll, uh,” he shrugs and looks toward the lockers, “I’ll see you around, okay?”

“Wait. Wait.” He shoves his own fears to the back of his head because he has to get that look of Peter’s face. Peter should never look that way. “You think I don’t want to be your friend anymore?”

Peter rolls his eyes. “You’ve made it pretty clear. You’ve been avoiding me for days. You can barely be in the same room with me right now. We don’t have to beat it to death, honestly. I get it. Just, um,” he licks his lips and looks uncertainly around the room. “You won’t tell anybody, right? And, uh, I might…I might still need some help with the anchoring thing. I’ll find something else as soon as I can, I promise. But until then…we can still manage that, right?”

Chris is horrified. “I don’t want you to find a new anchor! _I’m_ your anchor. Why would I—” It’s incomprehensible, what Peter is suggesting. Even in trying to avoid Peter, he had never conceptualized being without him long term. He was just trying to get a handle on his own issues so he wouldn’t drive Peter away. “Why would I want you to get a new anchor? You think I care that you’re gay?”

“Ah…yes?” Peter looks confused, and as often happens when Peter gets confused, also a bit pissed. 

“I don’t care that you like dick.” Which is an absolute truth. Peter could like 40 year old barbers with greasy armpits named Bob and Chris wouldn’t care. Because it’s Peter. He cares that finding that out has somehow fucked his own head up, but that’s an entirely different thing. “I’m mad that you lied to me. I’m mad that I did something that made you feel like you couldn’t tell me. I’m mad that you somehow ended up making out with girls you didn’t like because you felt like you had to. And…and…I don’t know, I’m just pissed! But not about that! _Fuck_.”

He drops his bag onto the ground and wraps his arms around Peter, like it’s the full moon, like Peter’s been pushed too hard too fast, like Peter’s woken from a nightmare of death and destruction and Chris is the only thing that can remind him of reality. “You’re my best friend, Petie,” he says muffled into his neck. The skin dampens under his breath and Chris wants nothing more than to follow the dampness with his mouth. He shoves the desire down and steps back, but keeps a hand on the back of Peter’s neck.

“You’re my best friend. I don’t care who you like, okay? And I’m already over being pissed. See?”

The relief in Peter’s face, quickly covered up by a good natured smirk, floods Chris with guilt. He hadn’t thought— He hadn’t _thought_. He just hadn’t considered Peter might read an entirely different story into his actions. Stupid, stupid, _stupid_. 

Well, he’s fixed that now. And he’ll fix the other thing, too.

“You’re an asshole,” Peter says fondly, scooping Chris’ bag up and handing it to him.

Chris shrugs, because it’s kind of true. “I really do have to go. Dad wants me to watch Katie this afternoon. But laser tag this weekend, yeah?” By this weekend he’ll have gotten over this thing.

“Definitely. Tell Katie I said hey.” His father doesn’t let Katie talk to Peter anymore, now that they know about Peter’s family. And Kate is too young to know how to keep a secret.

“I will. She misses you.”

Peter grins crookedly. “Yeah, me too. Tell her I learned how to braid Laura’s hair. Tell her I’ll do hers next time I see her.”

Katie would love that. “I’ll tell her.” They jostle each other’s shoulders and then Chris is out the door and headed toward home.

* * * * * * * * * * *

_Present Day_

Chris sprawls halfway across Peter’s back, head resting between his shoulder blades as he traces lazy circles across his buttocks. Peter occasionally makes a humming noise of contentment, not bothering to open his eyes as he lays half buried in pillows and sheets. There is a tiny smile on his lips that Chris takes and locks deep in his heart.

The windows of Chris’ guest room are thrown open, leaving late afternoon sun to cast dappled light across their bodies. Chris follows the whims of the light, drawing the shadow shapes against Peter’s skin.

“Christopher.”

“Hmm?” The sound vibrates from his throat to Peter’s back.

“You’re heavy.”

“You want me to move?”

“Didn’t say that.”

This time Chris smiles. “Okay, then.” He nuzzles Peter’s neck. Shifts to cover him more. “Better?”

“Mmm-hmm.” Peter sounds so beautifully relaxed and blissed out. Like he’s high off of Chris. Chris twines their fingers together and flexes his hips. Peter is still wet and open from an hour ago. If Chris were kind, he would let him up or clean him up. But Chris likes him just like this, stinking of his cum and the smell of their sweat. It will soak into the sheets and eventually the air and soon enough it will be all Peter can smell. Act as a reminder when Peter is inevitably tempted to deny what has happened.

There are times the knowledge he has gained in hunting serves him well.

He ruts against Peter, the head of his cock catching on Peter’s hole and sliding through his slick. They haven’t talked any further about what happened earlier, about what Chris had said and what Peter had admitted. Chris is okay with that. For now. He can only push Peter so far.

“Tell me when you’re ready again,” he gravels out, continuing to twist his hips and slip between the slight grip of Peter’s ass cheeks. He can be patient. He can wait. He might come on Peter a time or two in the interim, but he’s okay with that, too.

“You’re insatiable.” Peter stretches and rolls lithely back against Chris, smile growing and turning smug.

“What else could I be? With you naked and gorgeous and covered in me? Presenting like you’re just begging for me to come back inside?” That’s a risk, a place Peter might not be ready to go, for all that he wants to. But Peter shivers, tiny and almost imperceptible, then huffs out a laugh.

“I see you, hunter. Are you sure I’m the wolf here?”

“I just—” he pulls back enough so he can slide two fingers into Peter’s hole, crooking and catching them on his swollen and puffy rim as he pumps them in and out, “—want to make sure—” He twists his wrist and presses Peter’s prostate and grins savagely as Peter cries out. “—that you know exactly how much—”

His phone rings, sharp and loud.

It interrupts what he was going to say, which might be a good thing, but he has no problem ignoring it for the sharp, sweet sound of Peter’s whines. And he has no problem ignoring it the second, third, and fourth time the call comes, either.

When it happens the fifth time, Peter’s whimpering pant breaks off and changes to a low, irritated growl. He swipes the phone from the bedside table and draws back his arm. Just before he launches it across the room he catches sight of the screen. If anything, his expression turns even sour, but rather than continue his fast pitch, he shoves Chris off and rolls over, then thrusts the phone at him.

“It’s your parent friend.”

“My parent…” He takes the phone and checks the missed call. Melissa. Then the date hits him.

“Crap. We’re supposed to have dinner tonight. She and Stilinski and I—”

“Yes, yes, I know. Your weekly parent thing.” Peter’s lip curls up like the whole idea personally offends him, and Chris mourns the loss of the Peter of five minutes ago, writhing on his fingers and about to beg.

“I’ll cancel.” He starts to dial Melissa back, and Peter reaches out and smacks the phone from his hand.

“You’ll do no such thing. They’ll think I put some kind of sex spell on you and show up with wolfsbane and mountain ash. I’m kinky, but not _that_ kinky. What? Don’t laugh. Jennifer absolutely sucked Derek in with her magic vagina, so there’s precedent.”

“Let’s not talk about Jennifer’s body parts, okay?”

“What if it’s her body parts buried in many different locations?”

Chris snorts. “And then Derek would be the one showing up with wolfsbane and mountain ash.”

“That’s a chance I’m willing to take.”

“Well, I’m not.” He picks the phone up from his mattress and rolls it thoughtfully in his hands. “You know, you could come with us.”

“Oh, no. Absolutely not. Your little parents’ date is friends only.”

“So? You’re my friend.”

Peter laughs. “No, I’m not. People like Stilinski and Melissa are _friends_. Not me.”

“Yes, you are,” Chris insists. “You’ve always been my best friend.”

Peter’s humor disappears as his face turns dark and he hisses low, “No, you infant, I have _not_! This is not _friendship_. This is not any of that. You can’t make it the way it used to be! You were right that first night. You’re not him, and I am not _him_. And whatever this mess is, it’s not _that_. We will never be _that_ again! We had a moment. A stupid, brilliant, impossible moment. And then we lost it, and you can’t bring it back! We can fuck from here to the end of time, and I will _still_ never be that boy you want so much!”

“Peter.” Chris carefully sets the phone back on the bedside table and reaches for him. He resists at first, but Chris is insistent, and eventually Peter folds, comes pliant into Chris. “Oh, Peter. Of course we’re not them. How could we be? But we’re still _us_. Christ.” He presses his lips to the top of Peter’s head. Wishes with all his might he could force the tension from Peter’s spine. That he could make Peter _see_. “I don’t want you to be him. That Peter doesn’t know me. Could never understand me. That Peter needs that Chris. But I need _you_. I need your body, and I need your brain, and I need your hands anchoring me to this place.

“You are my friend, Peter Hale, first and foremost. Even when I hunted you. Even when you hated me. Before anything else. I didn’t stay in that circle because I thought this might happen. Any more than you did.” He lightly touches Peter’s rib cage. “We traded too many bits and pieces for too many years for it to be any different.”

Peter neither admits nor denies, and Chris can’t see his eyes, so he presses on. “And this is messy, yes, but it is not a _mess_. You have to know I wouldn’t have come here otherwise. Peter—” Make or break, Peter has pushed the moment of confrontation. Where these things are concerned, Chris has never been satisfied with half measures “—you _are_ mine.”

“Don’t,” Peter hisses venomously, “say those kinds of things. You know what they mean to my—”

“Of course I do. Just like I knew then. And I mean it the same.”

Peter is about spit another denial, so Chris puts his hand over his mouth. “I wouldn’t trade what we had then. Not for anything. I wouldn’t. Because we wouldn’t be here if we had never been there. But to say I somehow want to trade this for that? That would be like trading a bottle of _Chateau Petrus_ for a bottle of _Beujolais Nouveau_.”

Peter ducks away from his hand and says peevishly, “Well, I wouldn’t let them hear you say that. They believe they have a love for the ages.”

“And they’re right.” Chris reclaims Peter’s hand and traces the line of his bones. “It’s just that that age is now. Did you know the best wine comes from vines that have had to fight for water and air and nutrients?”

“Dear God.” Peter rolls his eyes. “You are just as ridiculously romantic now as you were then. Do you ever listen to yourself? What? Have you taken a wine class lately?”

Chris clears his throat and does not meet Peter’s eyes. “Maybe. Okay, yes. Allison and Isaac bought me a series for my birthday. I think she was hoping I’d meet someone over wine and cheese.”

Peter’s expression darkens, and Chris hastens on. “But the analogy still works! Admit it!”

“I’ll admit no such thing.”

It hits him then, that they’re sitting there, nude, snipping back and forth over wine analogies. It is so perfectly familiar and fits so much better than the years they’ve attempted to exorcise their past by trying to kill each other. He looks at Peter, realizes he’s pursing his lips to keep his amusement in as well, and then they’re both laughing. Peter has acquiesced to nothing, but neither has he run. Chris takes it as victory and lets the argument drop.

Chris wheezes out a last snicker and brushes Peter’s hair off his forehead. “Does that mean you’ll come?”

“Good God, no. I have better things to do than spend time with those imbeciles. Support groups are your thing.”

Chris raises his eyebrows, amused. “Need I remind you you once asked Melissa out?”

“Because I was attempting to blackmail her son, not because I actually enjoyed her company!”

“And Stilinski?”

Peter makes a face. “Useful on occasion. Still not someone I care to spend time with.”

“You didn’t seem to mind when we were younger.”

“Because _then_ , he was occasionally amusing. No, Christopher, these are your friends. You can face that firing squad all on your own.”

The reality is that Chris will be the one to face all of the firing squads. But he finally takes pity on Peter. “Okay. We’ll work on that one.”

“Besides,” Peter starts to _get out of bed_ , and Chris is very much _not pleased_ , “you need to start looking for a new apartment. We both know you’re not going back to yours. And somehow I can’t imagine Allison being okay living here, even for the amount of time it takes to send the juniors to oblivion.”

“The past. I think you meant send them back to the past.”

Peter waves his hand. “Tomato, To-mah-to.” Then he yelps as Chris wraps an arm about his waist and drags him back to the mattress. He rolls Peter beneath him.

“Would you want us to? Live here. Taking up all of your space. Teenagers always in and out.”

“As if that hasn’t been my life the last two weeks. But it’s a moot question, Christopher. You’re not.”

Oh, how neatly Peter always manages to avoid actually answering anything.

“So tell me, what are you in the market for this time? Another high rise? Perhaps one of those roomy condos out on 65th? Might I suggest a location with a nice restaurant close by? You know I like being wined and dined, and it will be so much more convenient to get back to the fucking if we have a place close by. Although if you’re into getting ticketed for public indecency, it really doesn’t matter.”

“Hmm.” Chris draws a line with his nose between Peter’s jaw and his ear, then swirls the lobe with his tongue. “We could probably find a dark corner, at the very least.”

“I suppose.” Peter’s interest in the conversation is fading with Chris’ distraction, so Chris pulls back just enough to bring it back.

“I’ve already found a place.”

“When would you have had the time—” He cuts off as realization hits him. “The house. You’re taking back the house.”

Chris nods. “I think it’s time. We’ve been living out a boxes for too long now. I think there’s a reason for that.”

A myriad of emotions pass over Peter’s face as he thinks it through. Irritation. Anger. Worry. _Fear_. Chris does not say anything. Lets him process and ride it out. Finally he comes back and raises an eyebrow.

“Just promise me you’ll keep the kinky torture basement. For those times you’ve been a _really_ bad boy.”

Chris howls with laughter and very carefully does not show his triumph in the fact that Peter has spoken of the future. “If you want. Although in that case, I suspect you’ll need it more.”

“What did I tell you, Christopher? Tomato, to-mah-toe. Now, get ready or you’ll be late. And don’t think I won’t call Melissa to tell her it is most definitely not my fault.”

“In a minute.” He slides a hand down Peter’s body, to wrap around his cock. “In a minute. We’ve still got plenty of time.”

* * * * * * * * * * * *

Peter knocks firmly on the door and waits. The house has seen better times and the paint around the frame is beginning to flake. Someone should see to that. The sun is setting, casting the entire place in shadows. He imagines that right about now, Chris and Melissa and the Sheriff are picking up their menus. Chris and his little parents’ club. A club to which Peter will never be granted entry, no matter Chris’ bright eyed optimism. His lip has curled up without his realization and he forces it back into a congenial smile.

Just in time, too. The door to the McCall home opens, revealing, as expected, one Allison Argent.

“They’re with Lydia,” she says, and starts to close the door. He shoots out a hand and blocks it.

“I am aware.”

She glares but stops trying to smash his hand between the door and the frame. “Then what do you want?”

“Your father to be happy.”

“Then move to Timbuktu.”

He tsks and shakes his head. “That won’t make your father happy.

“Well it should.”

“Perhaps, but your father has never been very sensible.”

She narrows her eyes and tilts her head and for half a second he’s seeing a teenaged Victoria instead of her daughter.

“Well, it would make me happy.”

“Undoubtedly. But as your happiness concerns me only in so far as it affects Chris, I don’t really care.”

She glares at him. He stares placidly and immovably back at her. Their silent standoff lasts for a long moment before she steps back and pushes the door wider. “Come in.”

The house is quiet. A book sits open on the couch, turned over to hold a place when its reader had heard a knock on the door. He takes a closer look. _Strategies of Peace: Transforming Conflict in a Violent World_. 

Her mother’s daughter she may be, but there is no denying Chris’ DNA as well. Perhaps she really will be the savior of them all. She and her werewolf lover. How the world does like to turn full circle. More than likely they’ll be torn apart like all the rest of them, but who knows? Perhaps they will succeed where he and Chris had failed.

Today is a day where he is more inclined to believe in miracles.

“Where is our young Scott?”

“Why do you always sound like you’re in a Jane Austen novel?”

“Perhaps your generation has forgotten how to use grammar, but—”

“If you say _in my day_ , I’m going to shoot you. You won’t actually die, and it will make me feel better. And you’re forgetting I have been up close and personal with teenage you.”

“—hopefully not _too_ close and personal—” he snarks back.

“—and you talked just as crappy as the rest of us. Maybe worse. You say _rad_ for God’s sake.”

“Please. Sick? Bae? _Squad_? Need I go on?”

“Gnarly? Fresh? Bogus?” She spits back. “ _Gag me with a spoon_?”

“I did _not_!” he snarls.

“Oh yes,” she says triumphantly. “You did. To quote: ‘You think I’m going to wear _that_ out of this house? Gag me. With a _spoon_.’ You were referring to a button up, by the way.”

He kind of wants to stab his younger self. With a spoon. But he’ll set himself on fire again before he lets on. “Well,” he recovers loftily, “you all still say _dude_.”

“I suppose that’s true.” She walks to the other side of the room and leans against the wall. She does not invite him to sit. “Scott and Isaac went to check on the Clinic.”

He sits anyway. “That gives us a chance to chat, then. Really get to know one another.”

“I don’t want to get to know you.”

“What is it, exactly, that you object to so much about my relationship with your father?”

“Oh, I don’t know…maybe the fact you’re a _murderer_?”

“You’ve killed. So has your father.”

“It’s not the same thing.”

He picks up her book, leafing through a few pages before setting it back down in disgust. What drivel. As if those who wage war could ever understand the language of peace.

“Are you telling me, that if your father hadn’t stopped you, you _wouldn’t_ have killed Derek? And done it happily?”

“He killed my mother!”

Peter tuts. “He bit your mother. Your _mother_ decided to take her own life. _Her_ choice. Don’t insult her by giving her power to my nephew.”

“Don’t act like you care about my mother. You’re glad she’s dead.”

Delicate waters, because he is most certainly glad Victoria is no longer breathing. He’s much better with sarcasm than diplomacy, but he did come to broker peace. Perhaps he should borrow that book after all. It has been years since his olive branches didn’t also hide a knife. “She took your father from Gerard. I can be grateful for that, regardless. And I do know strength, in both my allies and my enemies.”

“Then you admit she was your enemy.”

“We’re getting off track here. What about Isaac? You certainly attempted to kill him. And he was more than happy to kill Lydia. And not just because they thought she was the kanima. He liked it. And yet here you are, friends. Close friends, even.”

A delicate blush stains Allison’s cheeks and she does not quite meet his eyes. Interesting. He files it away for further study and presses his point. “And your own Scott did his very best to kill Jackson. And even you.”

“Because of _you_!”

“Yes, well, we all have our story, don’t we? I could tell you mine if it would make you feel better, but in the end, it’s all still murder, isn’t it? And yet you’ve learned to live with it. To forgive each other. Why shouldn’t you do the same with me?”

The look she gives him speaks volumes of her disdain. If she were anyone other than Chris’ daughter he would teach her a thing or two about what it takes to survive his world. About how pain can turn you inside out and make even the holiest of saints a sinner. And Peter had never come close to sainthood. It would do her good to remember how easily he had ripped Kate’s throat out. Her relation to Chris had certainly not stayed his hand. He closes his eyes and breathes through his nose and imagines Chris’ hand across the back of his neck. He lifts his wrist to his nose and inhales deeply. He can still catch a hint of Chris’ scent there. Another month, maybe two, and even showers won’t wash it away.

“Peter?”

He drops his arm and opens his eyes. Allison is watching him warily, eyebrows drawn together, and the hint of _concern_ he sees there threatens to undo all the calm he has just regained.

“My apologies. Please continue.”

“The difference,” she says, her tone suddenly absent the earlier anger, “is that we all _stopped_. You keep trying!”

He is honestly confused by this train of thought. “But I won’t _now_.”

“Because of my dad? Because he’s your anchor? And what happens if you get in a fight? Or he comes to his senses?” Peter fights down the urge to turn and walk out the door. Chris is a very, very good liar these days. He could have been lying to Peter. His words. His actions. All could be lies. But it seems a very long con, and he can’t imagine what purpose there is in it, why Chris would be willing to go to all this trouble; alienate his own daughter. It was much easier to trust his instincts before he’d grown so paranoid. He plants his feet and tunes back into Allison’s mild tirade.

“—I’m supposed to trust you when the only thing keeping you under control is a _person_? It’s called self control, Peter! People who have it generally don’t murder people for fun! Even when Scott and I weren’t together—”

“Ah. Of course.” He can’t keep himself from sneering, despite his best efforts. “She of Mr. McCall I Am My Own Anchor. Who doesn’t need you anymore because he is just so _strong_. Well, I’m sorry to disappoint you.” He’s not. He’s really not. “But most of us can’t live up to that divine perfection. And besides, anchors don’t work like that. Scott really shouldn’t be so proud of breaking that tie.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I know this may come as a shock, but I don’t actually exist to be your walking encyclopedia on all things werewolf. Teaching bores me.” Not true, at least not entirely. He remembers a time, many years ago, when he had told Chris he wanted to become a professor. Perhaps help there be a few less idiots in the world. But this child is already dangerous enough on her own. No need to help out there.

“How about we return to the original subject. Your father and his happiness. You care about your father, yes?”

Allison humors him by nodding. “I thought so. And I—” he stumbles and stops and recovers with, “am not going anywhere.” Posturing is so much easier than confession.

“I assumed as much,” she interjects sourly.

“Then perhaps we can also agree it would be easier on him if he did not feel as if he constantly had to choose between his happiness and your own.”

“You know, he could solve that problem by ditching you. No more conflict!”

He puts as much silky confidence as possible into his voice. “He’s not going to do that.”

She sighs and drops down on the opposite side of the couch. “I know.”

“As we share a common interest, I suggest a truce. Temporary, if you’d rather, and subject to change should circumstances do so. You refrain from pulling the guilt card on him, and stop using your mother as a bargaining chip, and I will do my best to…coexist…with you and your friends. I’ll even throw in being nicer to Isaac. Because I think that means a great deal to you.”

Another blush runs up her cheeks, which he notes shrewdly, but she admits openly enough, “It does.”

“Then do we have a deal?”

She narrows her eyes and he can practically see the gears in her head turning. She’s running through the possibilities, through all the possible outcomes and pitfalls. “It’s not just us you have to stop trying to kill,” she finally says. “You can’t kill anyone anymore. I don’t want my dad tangled up in cleaning up your messes. That’s not his job.”

It is exactly Chris’ job, just as it would be Peter’s job to clean up _his_. It is the nature of these kinds of things, even if she does not yet understand it, and Chris would be insulted if Peter _didn’t_ let him help.

However, he only points out, “That’s a bit limiting. What if someone attacks the pack? Or begins cutting a swath through Beacon Hills? I think you would definitely want me off the bench then. What if someone were trying to kill your _father_? Would you want me to stand aside in order to maintain the illusion of clean hands?”

“You know what I meant!”

“I prefer not to agree to things without exact parameters. Does this provision include Jennifer?”

She grits her teeth and he can tell she’d really like to make Jennifer the exception, but she finally gives a reluctant, “Yes.”

“But what if she decides another sacrifice is in —”

“Then you can kill her! Happy?”

He considers, then nods. “Yes. So let me get this straight. I am not allowed to kill anyone on my own time - not, I’d like to point out, that I have done so in _months_ \- but should it serve your interests, then murder is back on the menu?”

“We’re not talking about murder! We’re talking about defending—”

“Shades of gray. Do I have it correct then?”

“God, you’re annoying! How my father can get past that to—”

Peter opens his mouth and she cuts him off. “No, you know what, I don’t want you to explain that.”

“Well, you’re no fun.”

“Do we have a deal? I’ll be good and pretend I’m okay with—” He shakes his head and she rolls her eyes and backpedals. “—I’ll make an _honest effort_ to be okay with my father’s choices, and you’re going to play nice with the rest of us. Deal?”

“Sunday family dinners?” When hell freezes over, of course, but he can’t help poking, watching her attempt to not lose her cool again.

“Don’t push it. Deal?”

He holds up a finger. “One addendum.”

She eyes him warily. “What?”

“If Chris asks, I will kill. Whether if fits our agreement or not.”

“My father would never do that!”

“Nevertheless, if he asks, I will. I need you to understand that up front.”

She shakes her head. “You are seriously damaged.”

“Undoubtedly. But do we have a deal?”

She holds out her hand. “Shake on it.”

Because handshaking absolutely guarantees commitment. Utterly ridiculous, but he is not here for himself. He gamely takes her hand and shakes it firmly. “Deal.”

As soon as she releases, he moves to stand. “Oh,” he says as he straightens his slacks, “let’s not mention this little meeting to your father, okay? I don’t think he needs to know.”

“What? That you went out of your way to keep him happy? That you did something _nice_?”

“Exactly.” It should be obvious, should it not?

“You have a funny way of showing you care about him.”

“And you have a funny way of butting in where you aren’t invited. Now if you’ll excuse me…”

He’s out the door and closing it firmly behind himself before she has the chance to say anything else.

* * * * * * * *


	29. Chapter 29

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This seems like a good time to remind readers that this story went AU very early in season 3. Definitely before that stupid ass flashback episode.

Derek is drying dishes when there’s an insistent knock on his door. The elevator alarm had not gone off, which lends itself to the theory that whoever is out there is one of the pack. Or Chris, although these days Chris and the pack are not as separate as he would like to believe. The line between hunter and wolf is growing thin in Beacon Hills.

He slings the dish cloth over his shoulder and puts a plate back in the rack. He hopes it’s not Chris, back to renew his demands and threats. Derek has just cleaned, and he is really not in the mood to put his apartment back together if Chris is looking for a fight. He’s not particularly worried Chris will actually hurt him - at least permanently - despite his ominous statements to the contrary. Chris might bluster and blow, and he might _think_ he wants to get to Jennifer through him, but Chris Argent has never really wanted to kill anything that was not certifiably evil.

Peter, though…Peter wouldn’t hesitate if he thought he could get away with it. And where Chris goes these days, Peter is almost sure to follow. And again, Derek has just cleaned. He looks regretfully at his floors, sparkling clean, and his couches, freshly vacuumed and plumped.

The pounding grows louder, then irregular and spastic. Five knocks in quick succession, from the middle of the door, then three more to the left. Then two, tap tap, almost at the top. He’s no longer worried it’s Chris. The hunter would never be so disorganized.

He jerks the door open to reveal Stiles. He’s already swinging forward for another knock, so Derek skips to the side to avoid getting hit.

“Stiles. What are you doing here?”

Stiles narrows his eyes at him, bounces once or twice on the heels of his feet, and then dodges under his arm into the living room. Derek rolls his eyes and closes the door. He turns around and leans against it, crossing his arms over his chest. “Sure, Stiles, why don’t you come in.”

“Derek,” Stiles starts. Then, “Derek,” again. His hands are balled into fists at his side, but when he catches Derek eying them with an amused raise of his brow, he flattens them against his thighs. Derek groans internally. On a good day, just watching Stiles can make him irritated and wear him out, and today is obviously not a good day for the kid.

“Just spit it out. I’ve got things to do.”

“Like what, screwing a supernatural murde—” Stiles somehow catches himself and snaps his eyes shut. Then his eyes widen. “Are you wearing an apron?”

Derek’s arm cross becomes a little less aggressive and a little more defensive. “I’m _cleaning_. And if you’re here to bitch about Jennifer you can leave. And tell Chris to do his own dirty work.”

“Dude. It has flowers on it.”

“So? It was on sale! It costs a lot to repair this place every time it gets torn apart!”

“Yeah, sure, okay.” He seems to refocus himself with effort, and the nervous energy returns, almost vibrating off of him. “Mr. Argent didn’t send me. And I don’t care about Jennifer. Well, I mean, I _do_ care, because you’re having sexual relations with the woman who tried to kill my dad—”

“—she never had any intention of actually killing any parents—”

“—and poisoned your sister and honestly wiped out a lot of the local wildlife, but hey, that’s not any of my business, right? Not like everybody else isn’t sleeping with murderers, too. Degrees of separation, really.”

“ _Stiles_. Why—are—you—here?”

“Right. Right.” He takes a deep breath and blurts out, “Peter and Chris.”

“I thought you said Argent didn’t—”

Stiles shakes his head irritably. “No, no, not them. The other ones. The Juniors.”

“The…juniors?”

“Yes, you know, young them. That’s how we keep them apart. Where have you been?”

Mainly being shunned and having his texts unanswered, he thinks, but does not say. Although to be fair, he does his own share of avoidance. Most of what he knows about recent happenings has come second hand through Cora.

“Keep going, Stiles.”

“Right. Yeah. Okay, look.” Stiles takes another deep breath and Derek is mildly concerned he is going to start hyperventilating. “They didn’t…they have _a lot_ going against them. But they didn’t…they didn’t let that stop them. They wanted to be together and it was scary and dangerous and all kinds of people were against it, like psycho Gerard, who oh my god would probably have killed Peter if he’d found out. I mean back them, not now, because he did find out now, and yeah, wow, that didn’t work out so well for him.”

“ _Stiles_!” He thinks he knows where this is going, but if Stiles does not get there soon, Derek might kill him out of sheer irritation. And that might make certain siblings angry.

“Okay, the point is, they didn’t let anything stop them from being together.”

“Well,” Derek feels obligated to point out, “they kind of did.”

Stiles raises an eyebrow and says mysteriously, “I’m not so sure about that.” Before Derek can ask for an explanation, Stiles rushes on. “I’ve been talking to Cora since you guys first left. We’re dating. Sort of. But I want her to come back to Beacon Hills. But she won’t if you don’t stop being a dick. So I want you to stop being one. Which means you need to be okay with me dating your sister. Because, dude…she’s the one.”

Derek grimaces. “Stiles, you’re 17. You don’t know anything about “the one.”

“That’s not— That is _not_ true. And what about Scott and Allison, huh? Huh?”

“Okay. What about Kate and I?” he challenges.

That brings Stiles up short, eyes wide. Because if there is one thing Derek does not talk about it is Kate. Ever. He’s not even sure how Stiles learned about her, although it’s a safe assumption Argent figured it out and told his daughter. Who told her boyfriend. Who told his best friend. And now the whole goddamn world seems to know.

Stiles flails, mouth opening and closing in a soundless mockery of a fish. He finally settles on a light, jaunty, “Are you trying to say Cora’s secretly a psychopath, hellbent on destruction?”

Derek lets him off the hook, because really, how else is a kid gonna respond to that? “Maybe that last part,” he answers, just as lightly. Then he doubles up, brows going low as he glares. “What I’m saying is that not everyone is Scott and Allison. Even Scott and Allison. And I don’t want you making promises to my baby sister that you can’t keep. Or her making promises to _you_.”

Stiles is finally catching on, and his eyes narrow suspiciously. “Why are you…You don’t seem very surprised.”

Derek rolls his eyes and walks back to the sink, tossing the dishrag to Stiles as he goes. “Because I’m not. I already knew. You can dry.” He refills the sink with dirty dishes and starts washing.

“What do you mean you already knew? How did you know?”

Stiles still hasn’t picked up a dish, so Derek scowls at him. “ _Dry_.” Stiles jumps and grabs a cup. “And I knew because Cora told me, you idiot.”

“What? What what what? I’m sorry, I must have just hallucinated. I could have sworn you said Cora told you.”

“She did. In Brazil. We had too many secrets to add more.”

“Why would she do that and not tell me?!” Stiles looks so comically betrayed that Derek almost feels bad for the kid. Almost.

“Because she wanted you to do it. You know my sister. You really think she’s going to date someone who’s so afraid of her brother he won’t even admit he likes her?”

“What? That is not _even_ — I fought alphas for her!”

“Which is why she even gave you the time of day.”

“So wait…” Stiles stills as he processes, mouth hanging unattractively open. Derek cannot believe his baby sister is turned on by _this_. All those years without him has given her atrociously bad taste. “So the only reason she hasn’t come back is because she’s been waiting for me to tell you? And not because you’re a total asshole??”

“Oh, no,” Derek says, “she totally thinks I’m an asshole. That part is true. But it’s not what’s keeping her away. She’s not…she’s more scared of commitment than you think. And you refusing to say anything wasn’t exactly helping.”

“Okay, but I’m saying _now_. Because I want her to come back. So…will you not be a dick if she comes back? At least about this?” He points to his chest. “I mean us. Us dating. She and I. Her and me. Your sister and Stiles Stilinski. Beauty and the Beast. I’m totally the beast in that by the way. Just in case you thought I was implying--.”

“Stiles. Shut up.”

Stiles shuts up, and it’s only the constant jiggle of his leg that lets on how nervous he is.

“She’s old enough to make her own decisions. Hell, she was making her own decisions for years before she came here. And I think I proved I’m not exactly the best person to make choices for other people.” He grimaces before he can stop himself. His erstwhile reign as alpha is not exactly his finest hour. “I’m not going to be a dick.”

“ _Yes!_ ” Stiles pumps his fist, leaping into the air as he does. “Oh my god, thank you, thank you, thank you. We can work on those other things you’re a dick about later. Baby steps and all.”

“Oh, but Stiles—,” Derek lets a bowl slip back into the dishwater. “If you ever screw her over—” He lets his eyes shift to blue, “—I’ll rip your throat out. With my teeth.” He snaps said teeth for emphasis. Stiles is not nearly as cowed as he was the first time Derek had ever made that threat.

“Yeah, okay. And you’d better hope I never tell Cora you acted like she wasn’t capable of taking care of her own shit.”

Stiles has a point.

“Besides, I’m the one more likely to get hurt here.”

He looks particularly vulnerable for half a second before he grins behind a show of bravado, and again, Derek has to admit he has a point. This generation of Hales are not exactly stellar examples of mental health and stability.

He nods to Stiles. “You should call her. Give her the news.”

“Yeah. Yeah, I should.” He pulls his cell from his pocket and starts toward the couch. When he reaches it, he stops halfway through dialing and turns, balancing the phone on his palm. “Hey, Derek,” he asks, face a mixture of curiosity and trepidation, “how did your eyes get blue?”

Derek turns back to the sink and restarts washing dishes with a vengeance. “What do you mean?” he asks back, wariness creeping like a ghost up his spine. The sofa creaks, so Stiles isn’t attempting to come closer, which Derek appreciates. He doesn’t want to snap and hurt his sister’s new boyfriend. Even if it is Stiles.

“Peter told us. The adult one. Back when the juniors first came. Why his eyes are a different color now. I mean, I think he did it more to hurt the younger one than to actually tell us, but we heard any way. Who did you kill? That you weren’t supposed to.”

Derek braces soapy hands on the sink’s ledge and closes his eyes. For a long moment he does not say anything, does not even breathe. Then he lets out a long, painful breath and forces himself to face Stiles. Stilinski’s face is open and curious, without a trace of fear or judgment, and Derek reminds himself that this is why he did not beat Stiles to pulp when he first found out about the sexting. Well, that and the fact Cora would have kicked his ass for interfering without her permission. But Stiles, unlike Scott, judges less on blacks and whites, and more on justifiable causes. It’s a good trait for someone choosing to attach themselves to a werepack, and one of the verifiable positives he can point out in his relationship with Jennifer.

“Her name was Paige. We were in high school together. I didn’t…I didn’t know her well. We ran in different circles.”

“But you killed her.”

“And I’m going to kill you next if you interrupt me again. Do you want to hear or not?”

“Sorry, sorry. I do.” Stiles waves at him to continue. 

Derek tries to keep his voice dispassionate, does his best not to drag up long dead emotions from one of the most traumatic events of his life. “It happened when Deucalion came through, when he recruited Kali and Ennis, and Jennifer was left for dead. Not the first time Deucalion had come recruiting, I guess, but I didn’t know that then.”

Despite his promise, Stiles interrupts again. “You found out, too? You’d think _somebody_ would have told us before now! We only found out because the Peters and Chris’ had a fight and Mr. Argent let it slip! Dude. That’s totally how they broke up. Sort of. I’m not sure. The details are murky.”

Derek shrugs. “Our communication sucks. How is this a surprise?”

“True. That is true. You know we should, we should have mandatory pack meetings or something. And all the adults have to come, too. And tell us things. Because they really do not tell us things.”

Derek shrugs yet again. He often finds himself shrugging at teenagers these days. “Talk to Scott. He’s the alpha.”

“That’s so weird. So freaking weird. But he’s doing a good job, right? Don’t you think?”

It’s the first time someone has asked Derek’s opinion in a long time. He had become a less than trustworthy source of advice after he had led half of his pack to death and destruction. He will allow the reaction is understandable. He is only just now starting to trust his own judgment again.

“Better than me,” he settles on. “And we have hunters protecting us rather than trying to kill us, so that’s definitely something.”

“You know,” Stiles says contemplatively, “Allison has been reading the bestiary and that used to be a lot more common. Something went wrong somewhere. Maybe we’re fixing it.”

“I doubt Beacon Hills is exactly a lodestar of influence on the rest of the world. But we’re not dying right now. I’ll take that.”

“Me too. Me too. Anyway, you were saying?”

Derek had really hoped Stiles had gotten distracted enough to forget about the whole thing. He should have known better.

“I guess the rank of Deucalion’s pack had thinned out. Or he was looking for younger blood. I don’t know if you realize how young they all were. Kali and Ennis. Jennifer is only three years older than me. She was eighteen when Kali tore her to pieces.” Kali, whom Jennifer had loved, and whom had loved her in return. It really is not surprising that betrayal and exploitation are inextricably wrapped up in Jennifer’s definition of affection. He shakes the thought off.

“Ennis and Kali couldn’t have been more than nineteen. Too young to be alphas, really, but sometimes that happens. Like with Scott and Laura. Easy pickings for Deucalion and his promises. They were in town for Talia. To discuss the ‘hunter problem.’” Derek lets a bitter laugh slip. Gerard had been at the root of so many tragedies. Fear, as much as ambition, had been behind Ennis and Kali’s capitulations. And Ethan and Aiden had just wanted to survive.

“What does that have to do with Paige and, you know.” He jabs his pointer and index finger at his eyes and then at Derek’s.

“I told you to shut up and listen. Before Deucalion, Ennis met Paige. I don’t know how.” Dying girls don’t give the clearest details. “He loved her.”

“Dude, he was _way_ too old for—”

“I’m not arguing that. I’m just telling you what happened. At least what she told me, and I don’t have any reason to doubt it.” While dying girls don’t give the clearest details, they also generally don’t have any reason to lie. “He loved her and he decided to turn her. And it didn’t take.”

“It didn’t—take?”

Derek shakes his head. He forgets not everyone was raised in a pack. “That’s why we’re never supposed to give the bite without consent. It’s a gift, but it’s also a risk. Sometimes it doesn’t turn you. Sometimes it just kills you. And not pretty. It’s slow and brutal and painful.”

“ _What_?”

“I don’t know why it didn’t take with Paige. It should have. She was young and healthy. But it didn’t. And somewhere in all of that, Deucalion came. And rather than watch her die, Ennis left.” Derek can never be sure, but he thinks it was Ennis’ failure with Paige that pushed him to accept Deucalion’s offer. Being damned is always easier to swallow if it comes with power.

“Are you _serious_?”

“Peter and I found her. It was awful.” He shudders at the memory, nausea twisting his gut. “Peter thought…we took her to the Nemeton. It was one of Peter’s favorite places. Talia never talked about it, but Peter had shown it to me when we came back to Beacon Hills from Chicago. We were closer then.”

Stiles raises his eyebrows doubtfully but remains silent.

“We knew there was power there, even if we weren’t sure how to access it. I wanted Peter to go get Deaton, but he wouldn’t.” Peter had been off even then, even if he had been the closest friend Derek had had at the time. “The Nemeton didn’t help. Nothing was going to help.” He had begged Peter to do it, to put her out of her misery, but Peter had just backed away. Shaken his head, even as he had kept his eyes steady on her, a small, inexplicable smile on his face. _‘You want it done, Derek, you do it yourself.’_

“So I broke her neck,” he says bluntly. He can still hear the sharp crack her spine had made as it had snapped in two. He does not include the fact that her death had been the thing that had allowed Jennifer to rise. Some things are no one’s business but his own.

“How did—how does my dad not know about this?”

“Peter got my mother, and they made it look like she had been killed by a wild animal.”

“Let me guess— mountain lions.”

“They make a convenient scapegoat.” He realizes his hands are sweating and he does his best to covertly wipe them on his jeans. “That’s the story. Stealing an innocent life takes something from you. And it’s marked in our eyes.”

“That doesn’t seem very fair. You kill someone because you’re in a shitty situation and Peter murders his niece for power and you both get the same eyes?”

“Nature isn’t nice, Stiles. It’s survival. The animal kingdom has all kinds of ways of warning against a killer.”

“Then the animal kingdom su—”

Derek shakes his head and nods to the phone. “Calling Cora, remember?”

Stiles narrows his eyes at Derek for an uncomfortably long moment before returning to dialing.

“Stiles.” This time it’s dragged out of Derek. He hates asking for favors.

“Oh my God, make up your mind!”

“Don’t—don’t tell anyone else.” It costs him more than anything to force the next word from his throat. “Please.”

“Does anyone else know? Besides Peter?”

“Are you going to tell or not?” He makes his expression blank. Uncaring. He has given all the leniency he can at the moment.

“No! Of course not! Except Cora. I can tell Cora, right? You did say there were too many secrets in your family!”

“Cora already knows, dummy. She was there, remember?”

“Oh. Right.”

“Argent knows, too. They were too smart not to see past the mutilation. Victoria knew, of course.” He doesn’t know if Stiles will read his next words as unkind or not, but he thinks he owes them to Victoria. “It’s probably the reason she went after Scott. She had seen what could happen when a werewolf loved a human. If it hadn’t been Allison in the balance, she never would have broken the Code.”

It had taken him a long time to admit to that truth, to do more than just wallow in the ability to continue in his hatred of all things Argent. It had always been so much easier to simply hate them. He resents the fact he’s learned to see a warped reflection of his own family in their line.

“Well that’s…that’s still no excuse.”

“I didn’t say it was. But it is a reason. Now finish calling my sister. I kind of miss her.”

“Okay. But when I’m done, can you tell me what it’s like to date a druid gone darkside? The sex has got to be pretty good, right?”

Stiles barely ducks in time to miss the mug Derek throws at his head.

* * * * * * * * * * * *


	30. Chapter 30

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The math is totally fake.

_1986_

Katie ends up asking to spend the night at her friend Elizabeth’s house, which leaves Chris at loose ends and thinking too much. His dad is meeting with another hunter family and won’t be back until tomorrow, so when he finds himself flat on his back with his dick in his hand and his head full of Peter, he decides the smart thing to do is to get drunk.

The lock on the liquor cabinet is combination, and he has known it is his mother’s birth date for over three years now. It sticks, a bit, and he’s just about to put his fist through the glass rather than coax it when it finally clicks open. He pulls a bottle of Jim Beam from the back and screws the top open. It’s the thing his father will be least likely to miss. He only keeps it around for when he has to deal with bottom shelf hunters. The kind they don’t socialize with but occasionally have to work with. He tips the bottle back and guzzles it straight, letting the burn of the liquor settle deep in the back of his neck.

He drinks more than he should. He recognizes that. From the victory bottles Gerard presses on him after triumphant hunts to the Pabst he swills at senior parties to the desperate liquor he chugs when he’s trying to pretend his life doesn’t exist. And he’d sat through both of those high school assemblies about drugs and alcohol. But, honestly, whatever. Most of the hunters he knows are alcoholics and are doing just fine. If that’s going to be his life, he may as well fit in.

Peter doesn’t know just how much he drinks. He can only imagine the disappointed look on his face if he did. But again, whatever. Peter is his best friend, not his _wife_. Peter does plenty of shit Chris doesn’t like.

Chris slides down the wall to the floor beside the liquor cabinet and takes another swig. He can probably talk someone into going to the liquor store to buy another bottle. Replace it so there’s no chance at all his father would find out. Although it was sixes as to whether he would even be mad. Boys will be boys…it’s something his father has said more than once, when he’s caught Chris sneaking in from a night with a girl, or that time he’d gotten brought back home in the back of the sheriff’s car after he’d been busted painting graffiti on the water tower with Peter. 

Boys will be boys.

And boys definitely don’t want to fuck their best friends.

The bottle is half empty when he decides he should go see Stephanie. His girlfriend. The girl he is dating. The girl that is most definitely not his friend. But is a girl. And the one he is dating. He squints at the clock until the numbers resolve themselves. Hmm. Probably too late to call. He stands and does the alphabet test, reciting all the letters from Z to A. Perfect. Then he waves his finger in front of his face, going from left to right and then back again. He manages to keep his head still.

Okay. Good to go. He ignores the fact he waivers just a bit as he makes his way down the step, as well as the fact he drops the keys twice when he tries to unlock the car door. He’s fine. Perfectly fine.

He makes it to the turn off by Stephanie’s in one piece, and pulls the car into the parking lot for the preserve. From there, he walks, jumping over her fence and sneaking around to the back of the house. Her light is on and her window is open, despite the slight chill of the night air, and her curtains are fluttering in the breeze He has noticed the people of Beacon Hills have a disturbing habit of never closing windows.

“Psst,” he hisses both as loudly and as quietly as possible.

No response.

“Psst!” he says again, just a bit louder.

When she doesn’t appear, he looks around on the ground, finds a pebble and pulls back his arm. Just as he’s about to release it, Stephanie pokes her head through the window.

He barely manages to drop the rock rather than fling it. “Shit, shit. Sorry,” he giggles.

She grins, despite shaking her head. “Chris, what are you doing here?”

“I wanted to see you.”

“Well,” she holds her arms out. “You’ve seen me. I have homework.”

“Come down,” he coaxes. “I have the car at the preserve.”

“It’s a school night.” She’s very serious about school, just like she’s very serious about cheering. He likes that. He honestly likes _her_ , which is more than he can say for some of his girlfriends.

“Come on,” he wheedles, “Just for a little bit?”

She looks at him for a minute. “You’re drunk.”

He grins winningly and holds his thumb and forefinger up, just centimeters apart. “Just a little bit. Please?”

“You’re gonna rot your brain out. And then how are you gonna lead us through State next year, huh?” Her tone is chiding but he can tell she wants to give in.

“Pleeeeeeeese?” He deepens his smile to show his dimples. She’s nice. His girlfriend. He could definitely do worse. Peter boils low in his gut and he angrily pushes him away.

“Pretty please?”

She rolls her eyes. “Fine. Hang on.” She disappears and there’s a shuffle and a few bumps, and then she’s climbing backwards out the window.

“Hey, are you sure you should be—”

“Shut up! You’re gonna wake my parents up.” She hangs by her hands for half a second before dropping. She lands light on her feet, no wobbling, and then spins to standing. “I’m a cheerleader, dummy. I’m fine.”

“Yes,” he grins, grabbing her and spinning her around. “Yes, you are.”

“Oh my God, you are so drunk. Did you actually drive?”

“I was _fine_. I could even do the finger thing!” He waves his hand around to demonstrate, and truthfully he is far more sober than he’d started. Luckily he’d brought the bottle with him. He pulls it out and offers it. “Want some?”

She gives him a hard look, but takes the bottle and tips it back. She grimaces as the liquid burns down her throat then thrusts it back at him.

“Hey, do you think Peter is free this weekend? Brittney really likes him. I thought maybe we could double.”

The whiskey sloshes in his stomach, no longer comforting, but painful. “I’ll see.” Despite the pain he takes another long swig and wipes his mouth on the back of his arm. “Let’s go to the preserve.”

She rolls her eyes again. “Let me guess…you wanna show me the stars? You’re so transparent.” She grins then, and lets him take her hand. “Lead on, you perv.”

He grins the way he knows she likes, and does not think of Peter.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * *

_Present Day_

Peter sits cross legged at the end of the bed, math book open on his lap and pencil in hand. A notebook scribbled with equations rests beside him. Chris crawls up behind him and rests his chin on his shoulder.

“Are you almost done?”

“I’d be done sooner if you were helping.”

“You told me to go away.”

Peter nuzzles his cheek against Chris’. “Because you weren’t helping. You were distracting.”

He grins and buries his face in Peter’s neck. “I’m pretty sure I was helping something.”

“Yeah, well, my dick isn’t going to get this homework done.”

“Hmm.” Chris presses closer, slipping his hand around Peter and underneath his text book. “But I like your dick better than I like math.”

Peter moans and his head falls back onto Chris’ shoulder. “Chriiiis,” he draws out, voice half irritated, half breathless. “Not faaaaair.”

“You don’t want me to be fair. Besides, math is dumb.”

Peter bites his lip and presses into Chris’ hand. “Yeah? If you’re knocked down and…” he gasps and turns his head and scrapes his teeth over Chris’ neck, “…and a beta is jumping ten feet down from a tree five feet away, what…what…” Chris attempts to shove the book off the bed. Peter grips tight to its spine, even as he catches Chris’ mouth and shoves his tongue inside. Chris takes advantage of that for a good, long minute, but Peter’s hand never loosens its grip and he finally withdraws and presses his face to the back of Peter’s neck.

“What angle—” Peter’s voice is strained and reedy and Chris’ hand is wet with pre-cum, but Peter has a mission, “—would you need to aim your gun to keep him from killing you?”

“57 degrees,” Chris says automatically, “for a head shot. 54 if you want the heart.”

Peter smiles into his shoulder. “You might think it’s stupid, but you’re good at it.”

“That’s not math,” Chris objects, mainly because he can. “That’s survival.”

“Then I’m glad you can survive.” Peter hesitates for another minute, pencil hovering over paper, then dumps everything on the floor. “You’re right. Math is dumb.” He twists around in Chris’ arms and tackles him to the bed in all his naked glory. Maybe one day they’ll get bored of this, but Chris cannot quite imagine why.

It’s not even the sex. Or at least not only the sex. It’s this…the long, drawn out, skin to skin kissing. Hands free to roam wherever they please, discovering all the places that make each other gasp or cry out or groan. It’s Peter, grinning and laughing and then, all at once, falling into a whimper as Chris touches him _right there_. It’s having no fear of one of them dying should they be found out.

Peter leans over him, hands gentle as he strokes his face and walks fingers down his neck. Chris soaks it in, pushes into Peter’s hands and touch. There’s no time line for the destination; right now it’s all in the journey. He can’t imagine ever giving this up. If their older selves had made it to the cabins, they never could have left each other. 

He presses his lips to the palm of Peter’s hand, then slots their fingers together before speaking.

“What do you think’s going on that they’re not telling us?”

It’s obvious something big has happened. People whispering in corners. Looking at cell phones and watches. Glancing at he and Peter and then looking away. Lydia and Stiles getting into a whispering scream match where he’s sure he heard Allison’s name. Who had been closed up in Scott’s room for hours by the time Stiles left on some mysterious mission after summarily announcing all activities were shifting to his house for the foreseeable future. 

But most telling is how their older selves had gone from being practically stuck up their asses to disappearing all together.

Peter rests their entwined hands on Chris’ chest and props his chin on them. “I assume I had some kind of breakdown and you’re trying to stabilize me.”

“What? Why? Because we had _sex_? Why would he freak out about that? I know you said you were competitive, but—”

Peter shakes his head. “I’m really smart.” It’s not said as a boast, just stated as a fact. “I’m really smart and I pride myself on always knowing the lay of the land. I don’t…I don’t handle it well when my worldview is changed without me being the one to change it. That’s part of why I freaked out so bad when you kissed me. Because I’d _known_ …known it wasn’t ever gonna happen.

“And I think it was the same with him. Only worse. I think maybe I had built the entire framework of my relationship with you around certain facts. And then those facts changed. I think he freaked out. I think I would have freaked out.”

Chris squinches his face together as he thinks. “But that still doesn’t make sense. It’s not like we changed _his_ past. Just our now. _Our_ future.”

“Yeah.” But Peter’s eyes are far away and there’s a line across his forehead.

“What is it?”

“I’m not sure. Just…they’re not being as careful anymore. It was like Fort Knox when we first came. But the last couple of days they’ve just…said more. Old you never would have told us about the cabins before.”

“I was mad. I slipped up.”

Peter gives him a look. “You don’t slip up. You’re way too careful for that.”

“What do you think it means?”

“I don’t…I don’t know. Nothing good.” Then he raises his head. “What if we don’t go back? What if we just stay? What if we make them stop trying to figure it out? It wouldn’t be too bad, would it? To just…stay?”

Chris thinks about it. Never having to worry about his father again. Never having to be afraid someone would find out about he and Peter. Being surrounded by people who have a sense of right and wrong and a sense of family that is just as strong as what what his father has drilled into him, but healthy. Untainted by a twisted sense of loyalty that demands obedience no matter what. He considers what it would mean to be a part of all of this. Properly, not just as visitors.

And then he thinks about continually being out of place. Out of time. The feeling of always being just a bit out of step with the world. He thinks about how their older selves look at them. Like a dream. Like a horror. Like a memory you can’t quite forget but you’re not sure you even want to. But maybe you really do.

He thinks about Kate. Abandoning her to his father when what he now knows could save her.

“We don’t belong here, Petie. We can’t fix anything here. But we can fix it back home. You won’t leave with Talia now. We can stop all of it. We can stop the _fire_ You won’t ki--.” He stops before finishing. _You won’t kill Laura_.

Peter rolls off and onto his back beside him. “Maybe I don’t _want_ to fix it.” He clenches his jaw and his fist. “Maybe I just want to be happy. With _you_. We wouldn’t have to fight so hard here.” He flops his head to the side to look at Chris. “I’m tired of fighting. Look at them. They fought. _We_ fought. We fought and we got _nothing_.”

Chris is tired of fighting, too. But staying here when they could go back is giving up. And maybe giving up is something his older self had done, maybe it’s something this future self understands, but for Chris, here and now, it is beyond comprehension. Argents weren’t made to surrender.

“The fighting wouldn’t be over if we stayed,” he chooses to say instead. “Look at them. They fight all the time. With each other, with whoever that Jennifer person is. There’s always going to be a fight.” He pauses. “And I can’t leave Katie.”

Peter props up on his elbow with a sad, little smile. “I know.”

“Anyway, it’ll be different. They had to fight separately. We’ll be fighting together. We can’t lose if we stick together.”

Peter thinks it over before grinning cockily. “You have a point. We _are_ pretty awesome.” Then he sobers and returns to his original point, conceding nothing in the end. “But something— Something’s still off.”

Before Chris can suggest they investigate, before he can offer to talk to Allison - because he thinks they’ve forged some kind of friendship in the last few days, and as weird as it is he thinks she might just tell him - there’s a loud string of knocks on the door and Stiles’ voice penetrates, loud and raucous.

“Hey, hey, hey! There had better not be any sex happening in there. None. Zero. Zilch. We promised my dad, remember? Not as laid back as Scott’s mom, recall? Not to mention I just put clean sheets on that bed!”

“Too late! And Stilinski’s a hypocrite! Everybody knows he and Claudia did it in the lecture hall during homecoming!” Chris calls back smugly.

“Oh my God, my _ears_! You’re a horrible, horrible person!”

“Don’t be jealous because everyone is getting some but you, Stiles,” Peter adds.

“Rude!” Stiles yells. “And Isaac isn’t getting any, either, so there! Also, you’re doing laundry, you assholes!”

The sound of footsteps fades away before they get a chance to respond and the two of them exchange smirks.

“Does it ever weird you out that Stilinski’s son is sort of dating your niece? Like, if it works out with them, you’ll be kind of related to Stilinski?”

“Yet another good argument for going back and fixing this. Can you imagine werewolves with Stiles’ personality? You hunters would murder us for sure.”

Chris snorts. “He’s not so bad.”

“Says you.” Then Peter’s expression changes. A mix of embarrassment and guilt.

“What?” he asks, alarmed. “What’s wrong?”

“Christopher,” Peter says, voice angst ridden like he’s confessing the more horrible of sins, “I like them. All of them. Even Lydia. Even _Stiles_.”

Chris hits Peter with a pillow. “You jerk. I thought something was really wrong.”

“It _is_ , Christopher. It _is_.”

Chris rolls his eyes and flips to his stomach. “I like them, too. I didn’t. And then I didn’t think I would. But I do.”

“Oh, shocker. Chris Argent likes people. As if you ever really dislike anyone you spend more than five minutes with. You would be a horrible villain. You can’t hold a grudge.”

“That’s why I’ve got you, right?”

“Right. Someone has to protect you from your good intentions. Now, you have exactly five minutes to convince me as to why I shouldn’t go back to doing my homework.”

Chris, it turns out, is _very_ convincing.


	31. Chapter 31

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's not just about them anymore.

_1986_

When Chris reaches the car he clambers into the backseat. Stephanie leans in, one arm hooked over the door and raises an eyebrow.

“Wow. Really. Not even gonna pretend you wanted to talk or something?”

Chris sputters and garbles his words, horrified even in his drunken state. “Shit…no…shit…I didn’t mean—”

She rolls her eyes and slides inside. “Relax, dummy. I already told you, I was joking. I didn’t think you dragged me out of the house in the middle of then night for a poetry reading.” She snags the bottle of Beam from him and takes another swig.

He feels compelled to defend himself. “We don’t just make out! I like to hear you talk, too!”

“I know.” Then her dimples show as she takes a teasing jab. “But not as much as you like hearing Peter talk.”

He starts and barely keeps from sucking in a panicked gasp. Instead he does what he does best. Smirks low and hot and drags her over until she’s straddling his waist. “Now who’s being a dummy?” _Liar, liar, liar_ chants in the back of his head as he nuzzles her neck and then looks up so they’re nose to nose.

She’s still grinning, her hair tickling his cheeks. “At least I know I’m winning on this end.” She bridges the feather thin space between their lips, and he’s already got his hands up the back of her shirt and for what almost seems forever he’s able to drown out the noise in the slick sounds their mouths make and the way her breast cups just so in the palm of his hand.

Yes, this. Definitely this. This is who he is. This is what he _likes_. This is _who_ he likes.

He almost stumbles once, when she nips at his neck and he’s suddenly blinded by the image of Peter and blondie at the bar, blind sided by the realization that this is probably what they looked like in the back of Peter’s van. His stomach churns but then Stephanie’s hands are undoing his belt and he’s sliding her zipper down, and it’s good. It’s all good.

He pulls back a little, to say something sweet, to give her the grin she likes, but instead—

“I want to break up.”

She jerks away, her mouth an _oh_. “What? _What?_ Did you seriously drag me out of my house to cop one last feel before you ditched me?”

It takes that long for Chris to realize what he’s done, and then he’s choking on panic. Shaking his head desperately and trying to tug her back with the hand at her waist.

“I didn’t mean that. I didn’t mean that. I didn’t mean to say that.”

She resists, her eyes narrowing. She says slowly, “No, I think you did.”

“No. Nonono— I just—”

She cuts him off. “It’s not like a didn’t expect it to eventually happen.” Her voice is conversational. Calm. It makes the hairs on the back of his neck rise.

“I mean, I’m not dumb.”

“You’re not— of course you’re not. I mean, that’s what I like—”

She steamrolls over him and it occurs to him how ridiculous they look; her still straddling him, his hand still on her breast and her hand halfway down his pants.

“I’ve seen how quickly you use up girlfriends. I knew it was only a matter of time.” Her eyes narrow and he swears he can taste ice in the air. “I just thought you’d have more class.”

From a distance he hears a sharp crack, and her hand isn’t in his pants anymore because it’s just left a stinging print across his cheek.

“You’re an asshole!” Her lips are trembling and her cheeks are flushed and he knows deep in his gut she’s trying not to cry. And he… he just feels numb. She’s right. He is an asshole.

“I’m sorry,” he says dumbly.

“You’re right,” she says coldly. “You’re a sorry sack of shit.” She scrambles off his lap and hastily does up her pants and when he realizes she’s leaving he makes an aborted attempt to grab her hand.

“Please don’t go. We don’t have to…I don’t need you to…don’t—” he trails off before he can humiliate himself by finishing with _don’t leave me alone._

She gives him a scathing look before climbing out the door and slamming it shut with glass shaking force. Before she stalks off she sticks her head in through the open window and delivers her parting shot.

“You know what? Go find Peter,” she says scathingly. “You’re practically dating him anyway.”

By the time her footsteps fade he’s finally sober enough to realize he’s way too drunk to be driving. He stares through the windshield into the darkness, trying to feel regret for what he’s just done. Trying to feel anything except the self disgust that he’s managed to fuck something up _again_.

Long minutes pass before he heaves a sigh and finally gets out of the car, fumbling with the keys until he can manage to get the door locked. Rather than retrace his steps toward the road he puts his head down and shoves his hands in his pockets and treads heavily into the preserve.. It will never be dark enough and he’ll never be drunk enough that he doesn’t know this path by heart, and thirty minutes later he emerges into the Hale backyard.

He stops under Peter’s window and looks up. There’s no light on. Peter has to be asleep. He should go. This is not helping.

He’s just scooping up a rock to toss when the window slides noiselessly open and Peter’s head sticks out. His hair is sticking up in five hundred different directions and there’s a crease in his cheek and all the air gusts out of Chris’ lungs in one shuddering blow. He drops the rock and shoves his hands back in his pockets.

“Hey.”

“Chris? What are you doing here?”

He shrugs and scuffs a toe against the grass.

“Where’s Kate?”

“Slumber party.” He squints up at Peter and stumbles as his eyes lose focus for half a second. Peter’s mouth twitches into an almost grin and Chris’ heart thuds heavy in his chest.

“Are you drunk?”

Chris nods. “Yeah. A little bit.”

Peter’s scrutiny turns sober. “What’s wrong? And are you driving, you idiot?”

He shakes his head. “Not anymore.” Then, abruptly — “I broke up with Stephanie.”

Peter’s eyes grow wide and he slams his hands down against the frame. “Are you fucking kidding me? _Why_?” He’s exasperated. Of course he’s exasperated. This is the same story repeated over and over again. So Chris shrugs, like he’s done a dozen times before.

“I don’t know.” And it’s mostly true and mostly not.

“Jesus Christ, Christopher! You are _never_ gonna get better than that!”

Chris knows it’s true. It’s just a surprise to hear it from Peter. “You hated her.”

Peter stops dead in the middle of his tirade, looking inexplicably wary. “I never said that.”

Chris rolls his eyes and grins a little, feeling on something approaching steady footing for the first time in days. “You didn’t have to. You get this—” Chris waves his hand over his face, “—look on your face when you don’t like them. And you refuse to double.”

“Whatever. That doesn’t change the fact you’re never gonna do better. Anyway, I doubled with you to Mikey’s party! Where’s your god now, Christopher Argent?”

“That’s only because Amy let you stick your hand up her—” He trails off foolishly as everything comes rushing back and his feet slip out from under him again. The sheer number of times he’s pressured Peter into hooking up with some girl-- “Shit. I’m sorry about that. You didn’t want to did you? I made you. I always make you. You only did that so nobody would—”

Peter is giving him a hard look. “Shut up. Nobody makes me do anything, okay?” Then his look gives way to a smirk. “Besides, I won’t have to worry about that for at least…what do you think? A month? You’ll be a total pariah for at least a month before some other girl gets dumb.”

Chris sticks up his middle finger. “Fuck you, Hale.”

Peter makes a humming noise before resting his crossed arms on the window sill. “You want me to come down?”

Yes. No. Of course.

Chris shakes his head. “Nah. I’m okay.” He nods to the front of the house, where a light has been stubbornly on since he first set foot in the yard. “Besides, you’ll just piss Talia off.”

“Like I care?”

“I care. I don’t want you to get in trouble. Really. I’m fine. Almost sober, too.”

Peter stares at him for a beat longer before straightening back up and stretching his arms over his head. He yawns, grips the top of the window and sways out, causing his shirt tail to ride up and Chris to look down and away from the pale strip of skin it reveals.

“Alright, then. I’m gonna go back to bed. We can start your search for the next Mrs. Right Now tomorrow. I heard we’re gonna be getting a foreign exchange student. Maybe she’ll be French.” He wiggles his eyebrows lasciviously and Chris forces a laugh, then scratches the back of his neck.

“I think I’m gonna take a break.”

Peter’s look speaks volume. “Yeah. Okay. Sure. You wanna bet me on it?”

Chris starts backing away toward the tree line, smirking and shrugging like his mind hasn’t already starting imaging every dirty thing a bet could involve. “I never bet on a sure thing.”

Peter is starting to respond when there’s the sound of a door opening. Chris hears Talia’s voice, if not her exact words, and a scowl descends on Peter’s face. He doesn’t look away from Chris as he says “You’re not Mom. Don’t pretend like you are.” 

Even with that, though, he gives Chris a small half wave goodbye, which Chris returns. Then he rolls his eyes and retreats inside. Chris is at the tree line when Talia takes his place.

“Go home, Chris.”

He holds up an appeasing hand and nods. “I’m sorry, Ms. Hale. I’m going. I know it’s late. I just wanted to talk to him.”

Her face does something complicated he can’t quite read. “You aren’t making it any easier. Don’t make me call your father.” Then she closes the window without another word, pulling the shade down like a period on a sentence.

He sobers the rest of the way up on the walk back to his car and doesn’t bother trying to figure out what the hell she meant.

* * * * * * * * * * * *

_Present Day_

Chris finds Melissa and the sheriff already at the restaurant, ensconced at the table. Unlike last time he does not slink in. Does not hide behind a menu. Because he refuses to act ashamed or embarrassed of his choices. Not that a part of him doesn’t want to. Hide, that is. Because whether they approve or not, they won’t let that stop them from making fun of him. Because they are horrible people. Because they are, at the end of the day, two of his closest friends.

He slides into his chair and stares them down. “Go ahead. Get it out. I know you want to.”

“Well, technically, neither of us really knows what’s going on. I mean, you don’t call. You don’t write.” Melissa’s mouth twitches as she pauses, a smirk trying to escape. “But since you didn’t come back last night, I went ahead and ordered for you. A nice slice of humble pie.” 

“Ha ha ha. Ha.”

“Those two boys are having sex at my house,” Stilinski puts in sourly. “They said they wouldn’t, but they were lying. I don’t remember you being such a terrible liar.”

“You just weren’t as astute then, Stilinski. And too busy sneaking around in your own mess.”

“I don’t think you can compare Claudia’s parents not approving of me to your parents trying to kill each other. Not on par.”

The teasing vibe at the table slips away as Chris unfolds his napkin to hide the tension in his hands. “His sister. Not his parents. And my father succeeded.”

Melissa is just as sober, although the sympathy in her eyes is at odds with her bald words. “And Peter paid it all back, didn’t he. _After_ he killed his own niece.”

Chris knows enough to read the censure in her tone. The warning. But he’s already gone through this with his daughter.

“I know what he’s done, Melissa. And that’s between us, not the rest of you.”

“Really? _Really?_ ” Stilinski’s jaw clenches and he forces himself to take a drink from his mug before speaking again. “Was it between just the two of you when he kidnapped my son? Was it just between the two of you when he tried to _kill him_? This doesn’t just affect _you_. He damn near tore this entire town—”

He cuts off when Melissa puts her hand on his arm, but if Chris is looking for quarter from her, he’s cast his bet wrong.

“Chris. The story is very romantic, and _trust me_ , I understand why you and Peter came together then. And I even get _this_.” She waves her hand between him and some nebulous point that obviously represents Peter. “He changed your life. And now he’s changed it again. I really want to be happy for you. I do. But you’re asking me to forget he committed the werewolf equivalent of assaulting my son.” She holds up a hand when he tries to interrupt and rather than continue, he swallows his defense and sits back.

“And _yes_ , I understand he was more than a little insane at the time. But _you_ should understand he’s _still_ insane. And regardless of his state of mind, it still happened. And he just kept going. He tried to bend us all. He did his best to kill all of our children. _Yours included_. Do we even need to talk about what he did to Lydia?”

“No.” He wants to rise to Peter’s defense, but the reality is, he knows Peter _isn’t sorry_. The only thing Peter regrets is the necessity of killing Laura. Beyond that, his regrets are all in the vein of having to deal with the consequences of his plans continually being ruined.

He knows Peter isn’t sorry, and he understands what Melissa is saying, but it _doesn’t matter_. He shifts his glance to Stilinski, who hasn’t movds to speak since his initial outburst. Stilinski stares right back, refusing to look away or budge.

“He’s better now,” Chris finally says. “He’s not going to try again. He hasn’t done anything in months anyway.” Also true, but he knows that’s not her point.

“I agree. But it doesn’t erase what he’s done.”

A timid server clears his throat, and all conversation ceases as benign smiles fall on their faces and they make small talk - little jokes and inquiries into the server’s day - and place their order. Christ, when had Melissa and Stilinski gotten so good at dissembling? He knows the answer of course. Knows it ties exactly into the chaos Peter brought to Beacon Hills. The chaos his sister had dragged in first. But the server goes away smiling.

“Whatever he is,” he starts when they’re alone again, “you know it came from my—” he sighs and shakes his head and stops. “I understand,” he begins again. “I understand what he’s done has crossed so many lines. I understand it’s unforgivable for you. But I’ve already told my daughter, so I’ll tell you the same. It’s not going to change this. It’s not going to alter my choice. Peter and I… it’s deeper than I can even give words. But you don’t have to like or accept it. It’s not required.”

Melissa’s laugh is soft and wry, and beside her, Stilinski just closes his eyes and shakes his head. Chris raises an eyebrow as Melissa lifts her wine glass in what looks, for all the world, like a faux toast. “But I think we do.”

“What? No.” He’s perplexed at the shift. “It’s not a requirement of our friendship. Our relationship is separate from this. It’s not something I can ask.”

“I know,” she says. “And I appreciate that. We _both_ do.” She gives Stilinski a hard look and he grudgingly nods before finally speaking.

“If we don’t accept it, the kids don’t. They look to us to lead. They look to _you_. Remember? That’s part of why we started this whole thing. Ending up actually liking each other was just a nice side effect. If we don’t get used to this? If they think we’ve stopped trusting your judgment?”

He trails off and Melissa picks up the slack. “Then they stop trusting you, and it all falls apart. You _know_ our kids - _all_ of those kids - think they’ve got all this under control. And you know they _don’t_. If they stop coming to us? Stop telling us things? We can’t protect them anymore.

“So this isn’t just about you. It isn’t just about Peter. You don’t get to pretend you get to be that selfish. It’s about this whole town now, and we’re not going backward again. So, yes, if this is the decision you’re sticking with, then we do have to accept it. We have to find a way to move on from this. Because they need us to. So think very, very hard. Are you sure?”

He doesn’t have to think. Because the decision was made decades ago. “Yes.”

The server returns with their food, giving them another space to breathe. By the time he leaves, Stilinski looks grumpy but resigned, and Melissa downs an entire glass of wine in one go.

“So next week,” she finally says, “dinner will be at Peter’s. Make sure there is wine. Lots and lots of wine. Let the boys stay with Stiles.”

He’s grateful. He’s so grateful he can’t breath. Because while he was fully prepared to do this alone, he also hadn’t realized just how much he had come to depend on his friendship with them. For so long he’d only trusted one person. First Peter, and then Victoria. He hadn’t quite realized his world had expanded to include multiple friends. And multiple children. The Argents had always been about family, but it has taken him until middle age to realize his family included far more than their narrow definition of blood.

“Thank you,” is all he manages to say though, before he clutches his beer tightly to his chest and looks resolutely at his buffalo burger.

“Don’t thank me just yet.” Her voice has gone back to wry. “The wine is to keep us from killing each other while we fight it out. You can’t move on if you can’t air the dirty laundry.”

“Believe it or not,” he says slowly, “I think Peter would prefer that.”

“I believe it,” Stilinski says sourly. “You forget I knew him.”

Melissa pours another glass of wine and takes a deep breath. “Okay. Now that that’s out of the way, let’s get to the juicy stuff.” Her smile shifts to wicked. “I need some details, Chris Argent. And don’t leave anything out.”

* * * * * * * * *

Stiles grumbles under his breath as he digs the McCall’s key from its hiding spot. His house is currently being defiled despite assurances to the contrary, and even worse, they had had to put the image of his parents having sex in his head. Even after two weeks of evidence, he still can’t wrap his brain around how disgusting Mr. Argent had been as a teenager. 

Lydia’s house is closer, but she had refused to let him come over, citing research, which he knows is a total lie, because if she was _really_ doing research she would have wanted his help. In this case, doing research equals doing Aiden.

So bro time it is. Scott had been on his way back from the vet when he’d texted, and Stiles is running early. But his car is beside Allison’s in the driveway now, and Stiles has never depended on knocking anyway. 

The house is weirdly quiet, but he hears footsteps upstairs so he figures Scott and Allison are up there. He snickers to himself as he quietly creeps up the stairs. Unlike some _other people_ , Scott and Allison are pretty private about the physical aspects of their relationship. Sure they’ll hold hands and occasionally give each other a peck, but anything more than that they keep to closed doors. So there’s no way Stiles is gonna miss this chance to embarrass the hell out of them. And Scott’s door is open, which means they can’t be doing anything that would actually scar all of them for years to come.

He pauses at the frame when he hears Scott, his voice low and intense.

“This is still kind of really weird.” Probably talking about what Stiles’ has guessed at but hasn’t yet confirmed - that Mr. Argent and Peter somehow managed to do the nasty. “No. No, no, no.” Scott’s voice turns coaxing, with just a tiniest tinge of panic. “Not like that. I didn’t mean it like that. It’s good. Really really good. Like… _really_. But still kind of weird.”

Huh. Not the opinion Stiles would have thought Scott would have. But then there’s kissing sounds, and he’s taking his last step, ready to shout an at the top of his lungs _gotcha_ , when Scott is answered.

“Well,” is the smug reply, “as long as it’s the good weird, I suppose.”

Stiles stumbles through his step, falling gracelessly through the door with a startled “What the _fuck_?” because that was _not_ Allison’s voice.

Stiles leaps to his feet, repeating “What the _fuck_ ,” with new, improved emphasis. Thank fucking Christ they still have _pants_ on, but Scott is _straddling_ Isaac on the bed, both their shirts nowhere in evidence. There are _hickeys_.

Isaac’s eyes are startled, and panicked, and when he sees Stiles he tries to scramble out from under Scott. Scott stops him with one hand firm on his shoulder, and just like that, Isaac stills. Scott doesn’t change his position, doesn’t do anything, just looks at Stiles and says calmly, “Stiles. You didn’t knock.”

“When do I ever knock? You know I know where the key is!” He flings his arm out expansively. “Don’t try to change the subject! What the fuck is this? Are you fucking kidding me?” He can’t seem to stop the curse words tumbling out and he points an accusing finger at both of them. “Not cool, dudes. Not cool. Does Allison know about this?”

“Christ, Stiles. Of course I do.”

Finally, _finally_ it’s Allison’s voice. He spins around toward the sound, to the hall where she’s just stepping out of the bathroom. But _she’s_ not wearing pants. Just a shirt. Upon closer inspection, _Isaac’s_ shirt. And again with the hickeys. His mouth gapes open, then closes. Then repeats. 

Allison gives him an amused look before slipping past him into the room, not looking the slightest bit uncomfortable with her state of dress.

The three of them look at him. He looks back. He isn’t sure how long the stare off lasts before Scott breaks the silence with a forced laugh.

“Come on, buddy, say something. You’re making me nervous.”

_He’s_ making _him_ nervous?? He’s mute for another few seconds, weighing his response, but when he notices Isaac shrinking into himself, the expression in his eyes growing more ashamed and embarrassed with each second that passes, he knows he has no choice.

“This is _disgusting_ ,” he snarls out. But Isaac actually flinches and Scott’s jaw hardens dangerous, so Stiles rushes on, breaking into a smirk. “How can I seriously be the only person in our friend group still not getting laid?!”

Isaac’s tension deflates with a gasping laugh; Stiles doesn’t miss the way Scott’s thumb lightly strokes his collarbone before Scott shakes his head and snorts.

“You’re such a _dick_ ,” Scott says, and _finally_ rolls of Isaac, as if he’s only just now satisfied he won’t have to stand between he and Stiles.

Stiles smirk grows wider as he shrugs good-naturedly, because it’s kind of true, and then he yelps and grabs his shoulder, because Allison’s just _frogged_ him.

“You asshole!” She accuses, even though there’s a smile behind it. “You scared Isaac! You know your opinion’s important to him!”

“Oh my _god_!” He clutches his shoulder and slumps against the wall dramatically. “You really are your father’s child! So freaking _violent_! And wait a minute!” He narrows his eyes at Scott. “Are you saying my opinion doesn’t matter to you?”

Scott rolls his eyes. “Don’t be stupid.” Allison gravitates toward the bed and sits on the edge, and Isaac fishes around on the other side of the bed until he comes up with Scott’s shirt. Isaac puts it on and sits cross legged and Stiles nods appreciatively.

“Thanks, dude. See?” He looks pointedly at Scott. “Isaac cares about my eyes.”

“ _You_ ,” Allison shoots back, “walked in on _us_.”

Point. Since nobody seems to be kicking him out, though, he settles more comfortably against the wall. “So this is new, right? This whole…” He circles his finger at the three of them. “Hey! See, Isaac! I told you you never knew what could happen in the future! I mean, granted I didn’t mean this, but—” Isaac ducks his head and an unhappy thought occurs to Stiles. He looks angrily between Scott and Allison.

“Is this just a sex thing? This isn’t just a sex thing, right? Because I don’t think Isaac thinks of it as just a —”

“Stiles.” Scott shuts him up with a look as Isaac peeks at him between his curls. “It’s not just a sex thing.”

“Okay. Good.”

Isaac mouths _thanks_ at Stiles and Stiles just grins. He’s always gonna have his friends’ backs. Even if it’s against other friends.

“Wait as second.” Scott looks between Isaac and Scott. “You didn’t say anything this afternoon when Allison— You knew? You talked about it with _Stiles_? Was I the only one who _didn’t_?”

Isaac blinks at him and Allison bites her lip like she’s trying not to laugh. Stiles helps them out by rummaging around in Scott’s drawers until he finds a pair of sweatpants. He tosses them to her and she rolls her eyes while Isaac fumbles with his answer.

“I didn’t…this? No. I didn’t even think—”

“Dude.” Stiles once again lends an assist because this babbling thing could go back and forth for _ages_. And he really does want to ask about the Peter and Mr. Argent thing. “He wasn’t aiming for some threesome action. He was just crushing hard. Definitely didn’t think this could be a thing. And he never really told me. I just have eyes. Unlike some people.”

“It’s a triad,” Allison interjects.

“What?” All three of them turn to stare at her.

“What we are. A triad. That’s the right word. Because it’s not just sex. It’s not.” That is directly toward Isaac, like she wants to make sure he gets it. “That’s the word you should use.”

Scott just stares at her, a grin creeping across his face, and she starts to blush. “What? I read up on it while you guys were at Deaton’s. I wanted to see if there were other people who…you know…so I researched.”

“Wow,” Isaac deadpans. “You are such a nerd.”

Allison throws a pillow at him in retribution and Stiles feels better. He is then obligated to point out, “Your dad is gonna _freak_.”

Scott glares, like Stiles has somehow broken the mood, but he’s not sorry for mentioning the obvious.

“My dad has no room to talk.”

And now they’ve finally circled back to where Stiles had really wanted to begin. “So…they did then? Your dad and Peter—” He makes a crude pantomime with his hands just in case they’re in any doubt about what he’s asking.

“Gross!” Allison flips him off as he shrugs. “And yes!”

“And not just one time,” Isaac helpfully adds. Allison gives him a fierce look, but rather than being cowed, Isaac scoots over to her and nuzzles his forehead against her shoulder. Scott smiles fondly at the two of them.

“Can we go downstairs?” Stiles suggests, once again deciding to be helpful.

“Why?” Scott pats an empty space on the bed. “You could sit down, you know.”

“Um. Ew, no. That bed has cooties now.”

“I hate to break it to you, buddy, but Allison and I have been having sex in this bed for a long time and you’ve still been sitting on it.”

“Yes but then I could pretend I didn’t _know_. This has ruined the illusion. And can I point out again how unfair it is that I’m the only one not getting laid?”

“No, we haven’t had—” Isaac seems to realize the words coming out of his mouth and cuts off abruptly, his eyes wide.

Stiles is delighted. He gears up for an _epic_ round of teasing when Allison uses her advantage of knowledge to shut him up completely.

“My dad and Peter are in a _relationship_. He says he _loves_ Peter.”

Stiles falls on the bed with a heavy thud. “Shit.”

Scott nods. “Shit, indeed.”

Isaac, like the weirdo he is, tries to look sympathetic, but his satisfaction at the new development still manages to seep through.

“So….” Stiles falls off for a second and then picks up, “…what are we gonna do about it?”

Allison actually _growls_ , a long, low, frustrated sound. Stiles scoots a few inches away, out of self preservation.

“Nothing.” Then she shakes her head, almost at herself. “No. I mean…work with it, I guess. Try to accept it.”

“Um…who are you and what did you do with Allison?” He knows how she feels about Peter. _Both_ versions. And he very clearly remembers her reaction to seeing even Chris and Peter’s juniors together. Although that’s gotten a little better, he supposes. He almost thinks she and young Peter don’t totally hate each other anymore.

Scott answers him. “Peter came by while Isaac and I were at Deaton’s. The adult Peter,” he clarifies.

“Obviously. Since the young one is busy _fucking_ in my _guest room_.”

“Not helping,” Allison breathes.

“Right. Sorry. So wait, Peter came here? While you were alone? Did he like…threaten you to back off? Because we can take him. We’ve done it before. Your dad’s probably just sex magicked.” Then he gasps. “Like Derek! Your dad is totally Derek in this scenario!”

This time it’s Scott who frogs his shoulder. “Dude! Stop!”

It’s not Stiles’ fault his mouth works faster than his brain sometimes.

“He didn’t threaten me. I kind of wish he had. It was worse.”

“ _Worse_?”

Allison nods sadly. “He said we had my dad in common now and we needed to try to get along so my dad didn’t feel torn in half. That he wasn’t going anywhere so we had to figure out how to coexist.”

“Shiiiiiiit,” Stiles draws out.

“Yep.”

“He actually loves your dad.”

“Yep.”

The four of them look at each other and then echo together.

“Shit.”

* * * * * * * * 

Chris nuzzles at Peter’s neck, tracing a line of syrup with the tip of his tongue. Peter holds himself up with his palms against the counter, his head falling back as his legs fall apart and Chris steps firmly between them.

“You’re going to burn my hash browns, Christopher.” Peter’s words come out breathy and his eyes stay shut and Chris hums against the bottom side of Peter’s jaw.

“I could stop.”

“Or you could _not_.”

“Good idea.” He skims his hands down Peter’s back, slides them underneath the back of of his sweatpants, and, in a sudden move, jerks Peter forward until they’re pressed tightly together, bare chest to bare chest, and dick to dick. They both shudder and gasp in a much needed breath.

Chris has been drawing this out all morning, from the second he brought a half asleep Peter off in his hand while he came on his stomach. Since he’d rubbed his cum into Peter’s skin and refused to let him wash it off. From the second he’d dragged his teeth down Peter’s lobe and whispered “I want all of them to know.”

In the hours since, it’s been hands on hips and asses and necks. It’s been bites and groans and Chris’ tongue licking Peter open over the counter, but stopping right before he came. Ignoring Peter’s curses to pull his sweats back over his ass. Ignoring his own aching dick to run his tongue up Peter’s spine and whisper shooshing sounds into his ear. The breeze wafting in from the still broken balcony door a welcome balm to overheated flesh.

It’s been breakfast interrupted too many times to count as one or the both of them struggle to win at this unspoken game. Patience is the gift that age has given them. The understanding that denial can result in the harvest being all the sweeter.

“Christopher.” Peter breaks, twisting one hand through Chris’ hair and gripping tight. “I need— Now. I need yo— I need this _now_.”

“Yes. Christ, yes.” Peter is scrambling before the words have even finished leaving his mouth, shoving at the waistband of their pants while simultaneously doing his best to get as close to Chris as possible. 

Chris is not much better, digging nails into the meat of Peter’s ass and working a dark, dark mark underneath the corner of his jaw. He is just about to spin Peter around and bend him over when a key rattles in the door. It is the only warning they have before it is thrown open and Stiles tumbles in, Chris and Peter’s younger versions right on his heels.

“Oh my God, _whyyyyy_?” Stiles wails, flinging his arms over his eyes, presumably to shield them from the half of Peter’s ass that Chris has bared. Chris and Peter’s younger selves have frozen in their tracks, their expressions enough to let Chris know Allison had not filled them in on recent developments. Then, without a word, Chris’ junior raises his hand and Peter’s, without looking away from the scene in the kitchen, slaps his palm into it in a hard high five. Then, again without breaking his stare, he uses the heel of his foot to close the front door.

Chris keeps Peter pressed to him, regretfully adjusts his waistband to make them passingly decent, and levels a glare at Stiles over his shoulder.

“Stiles, I distinctly remember telling you not to bring them back until at least noon.”

Stiles flings an accusing hand at the wall clock. “It _is_ noon. Why am I being punished? Why is this my life? I’m a good person!”

A half-hearted glance confirms Stiles is telling the truth and Chris can feel Peter shake from silent laughter. “Ah. Well. I suppose we lost track of time.” He is doing his best to ignore the ecstatic grins that are slowly spreading across their juniors’ faces. They are going to be unbearable.

“You _think_? Looks like you lost track of breakfast, too!” Chris takes a look around as Stiles continues to rant and has to allow Stiles isn’t wrong about that, either. A bowl of pancake batter is overturned and spattered across the kitchen floor, there’s ketchup smeared along the refrigerator door in the vague imprint of Peter’s shoulders, and the hash browns that finally reached the stove are rapidly approaching burnt. His dick twitches as he relives the morning memories and it’s not helping that Peter takes a shuddering, hiccuping breath, like he knows exactly what Chris is struggling with.

“I should not be exposed to this! This is child abuse!” Peter’s younger self gives Stiles an ugly, angry look at that, and Stiles’ ranting comes to an abrupt halt.

“Yeah, you’re right,” Stiles admits apologetically. “That wasn’t cool.”

Peter raises his head to look at Chris. “Make them go away, Christopher,” he mouths sub-vocally. “You’re supposed to be fucking me. And then feeding me. They can come back later.”

It’s irresponsible, Chris is well aware, but he can’t help pressing his mouth to Peter’s ear to murmur, just as quietly, “I remember feeding you. Multiple times.”

“Holy shit,” Peter’s younger self breathes, because while there’s no way the humans in the room could have heard, they must not have been quiet enough for the other werewolf. “You guys are filthy.” He leans over and whispers something to Chris. His eyes shoot wide and then a choking laugh erupts.

Chris raises an inquiring eyebrow at the Peter in his arms and Peter shrugs carelessly. “He told him I smell like I bathed in you. Not quite his wording but you get the drift.” Peter wiggles his eyebrows lasciviously, but neither that nor the follow up smirk can quite hide the subtle satisfaction hidden behind it.

“ _Grossssssss_ ,” Stiles wails, yet again, as Chris returns Peter’s smirk.

“That’s the point.”

“So.” Chris’ junior finally breaks his silence. “Glad you finally stopped being dumb. Like…so dumb it was painful to watch.”

Young Peter hums in agreement, but then makes a face. “We _eat_ there.”

Peter gives Chris a positively evil look before glancing over his shoulder at his teen self and saying wickedly, “Yes. Yes you do.”

“That’s it. That is _it_.” Stiles throws the house key on the entry table and jerks the door open. “I’m out. And just for that, I’m gonna let you find out on your own. It’s your own fault.”

He slams the door behind him without an explanation of his cryptic parting words and leaves the four of them alone. There’s a beat or two of silence before Peter gives a regretful, frustrated sigh.

“Is this what it’s like, Christopher? Doing the parent thing?”

Chris grins in genuine amusement. “You mean always getting interrupted at the good parts because somebody needs something? Yeah, pretty much.”

“Children,” Peter pronounces, pushing Chris back just enough so he can hop down from the island and face them properly, “I hate you.”


	32. Chapter 32

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A chapter wherein nothing happens but everything happens.

_1986_

Chris isn’t there when school starts, and at first Peter’s just pissed. Because that means he’s stuck dealing with the fallout of Chris’ latest stupidity. Because somehow, everyone always seems to think he’s responsible for Chris’ bullshit.

“Your best friend’s a dick,” is the first thing Stephanie says, slamming his locker shut so he can’t block her out.

“What?” Peter cocks an eyebrow and rests one hip against the locker wall. “A guy decides he doesn’t wanna screw you anymore, that makes him a dick? Sounds pretty vain to me. Not exactly your most flattering angle, huh?”

“Oh shut the hell up, Peter. Don’t even try to defend him. And yeah, he’s a dick when him breaking up with me just happens to coincide with the end of cheer sports.”

“Awww,” Peter flutters his eyelashes and moues, “not good enough to drown out the upcoming soccer chicks? Think that says more about you than Chris, don’t you think?”

He is being incredibly unfair. He knows that. But he can’t _stand_ her. Can’t stand the way she has a brain and has a sense of humor and has a way of making Chris actually look at her for more than two seconds. She’s stuck around longer than any of his other Interchangeables, through two entire sports seasons. By this point just her face makes him want to shift.

And underneath his pique is the memory of the fear, the _terror_ of yesterday. Of realizing Chris had followed him. Had _seen_. The moment he had been sure the look on Chris’ face was disgust, that all of his worst fears were coming true and he was losing his best friend, his anchor, the person he lo—

He shakes his head and smirks at Stephanie’s raised middle finger. “Take it up with him. I’m not his mother.”

“ _Douche_.” She spits out. Then she kind of just…deflates. He supposes he could feel sorry for her. He could, but he doesn’t. “Besides,” she concludes, “he already knows he’s an asshole. That’s why he’s hiding somewhere, isn’t it?”

Leaving Peter to clean up his mess. Peter doesn’t mind, not really. Not when it could have been so much worse. Mainly he’s still swimming in relief that despite all social indicators otherwise, Chris doesn’t _care_. Still wants to spend time with Peter, hadn’t hesitated to touch Peter, still wants to be his _best friend_. He shouldn’t have underestimated Chris. Not when Chris hadn’t even cared he was a _werewolf_. The fresh wave of it makes him giddy, makes him laugh out his relief.

“Come on, Stephanie. You know he’s probably just holed up with his next best thing.”

“No he’s not. Not without you knowing. You would have been the first to know. Just like you knew about us breaking up. He probably doesn’t crap without you knowing. I mean, he went to your house last night, right?”

She’s managed to startle him. “How do you know— Why would you think that?”

“Because I told him to, dummy.”

“Wait, what? Why?”

Her face sharpens, like she’s gearing up for something particularly cutting. In preparation, Peter straightens, presses him palm against cool metal, and gets ready to cut her off at the knees. But at the last minute she swerves. Does the unexpected and softens.

“Because he’s screwed up, Peter. Don’t pretend like you don’t know that. You’re his best friend. And last night…I might wanna kill him, but I’m not a bitch, you know…He didn’t need to be alone. I don’t know…maybe his dad fucked him up more than usua—”

She cuts off with a yelp as he digs his fingers into her arm and drags her closer. “Shut up.” He whispers low. “What the hell are you— You don’t know what you’re talking about it. His dad doesn’t—” Because that’s the last gossip Chris would want bouncing around school. But Chris _is_ late. Something could be— Something could be _wrong_. What if Talia had followed through on her threat? What if she’d called _Gerard_??

“Oh my god,” Stephanie hisses back, cracking through his train wreck stream of thought. “I’m not stupid, okay? I know what it means when Chris shows up with bruises. I’m not gonna say anything, alright? But somebody needs to help him. And he was _off_ last night. Really off!”

“He doesn’t need your help. Got that? I take care of him just _fine_.”

She shakes him arm off and steps back, a complicated expression on her face and a piercing look in her eye. “Yeah. I know. That’s the problem, right?”

He shoves his hands in his pockets and blows a strand of hair out of his eyes, pretending his heart didn’t just seize in panic. “Whatever. Just keep your mouth shut.”

She shakes her head at him, like _he’s_ the one who needs pitying, and stalks off back to her cadre of girlfriends. They glare in tandem, too, whispering among themselves as they start to trail off. He does his best not to think about the fact he’d gotten off with one of them less than two weeks ago, listening to the sounds of Chris with Stephanie and pretending it was Chris touching him instead.

He’d felt disgusting after, like he does every time, which was part of what had driven him out last weekend, in the desperate attempt to not be a walking _lie_. And even that had turned into a lie, hidden in a smoky corner, clutching counterfeit blond curls and keeping his eyes squeezed shut.

So yeah, at first he’s just pissed at Chris for leaving him to deal with Stephanie and company’s snit, but now he’s worried. Worried he should have crawled out his window, regardless of Talia. Made sure Chris was telling the truth. Was just drunk and feeling predictable guilt for hurting yet another girl’s feelings. 

What if he had missed something?

His worry grows as first period turns to second period. He can’t call Chris, not with the chance Gerard might answer. And going to the house is risky, for the same reason. He’s debating taking that risk when the bell signals the end of second period, is walking to his locker to ditch his books and then school altogether, when all the tension leaves him in a sudden _woosh_.

Chris is standing at their locker, head down as he tugs his math book and trapper keeper out. Peter hurries over and bumps their shoulders together.

“Where the hell have you been? And what the heck did you do to Stephanie? She was straight on the warpath…” He trails off when Chris looks up. “Jesus, you look like shit.” His eyes are bloodshot and there are dark circles beneath them. He shrugs and knocks his hip against Peter’s before stepping away and shutting the locker.

“Slept like shit. I’m fine.” Then he makes a face. “Sorry about Stephanie. Was she really bad? Should I get her flowers or something?”

“What? No! Why would you do that? And you don’t look okay.”

“Fuck, Peter, I’d tell you okay? It’s _fine_.” The last bit is almost a growl, spit through gritted teeth, and Peter holds his hands up in surrender. Not that he believes Chris, but he’s obviously not ready to talk. “And I’d get her her flowers because I fucked up, okay?”

Chris has never apologized to a girl with flowers before. Christ, Peter hates her. “Do you wanna get back with her?” he ventures cautiously. If so, he’s gonna have to smooth over their earlier conversation. Not that he thinks Chris would be mad, but he does occasionally get tired of always hearing Chris’ girlfriends bitch.

Chris shakes his head and says slowly, “No…no. But she was nice, right?” He’s looking at Peter but his eyes are unfocused.

“Sure,” Peter concedes sourly. “But why set a precedent? Then you’re gonna have to give them to every girl after. Are you _high_?”

Chris shakes his head again. “No. I kind of wish, though.” He half grins at that but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “And I told you. I’m taking a break.”

“Yeah, okay, buddy. Sure.” Peter rolls his eyes and throws his arm over Chris’ shoulder and tugs him down the hall toward third period. And he almost, almost doesn’t notice Chris tense underneath him.

And when Chris doesn’t show up at their locker after school, it’s all Peter can remember.

* * * * * * * * * * *

Chris pushes open the door and fights to keep the memories from swallowing him whole. He had had the moving service open the house up this morning, long before they arrived, pulling covers off of couches and changing filters and dusting built ins. It does not help. Regardless of work and opened windows, there’s still the spice of mustiness in the air, of a house left dormant far too long.

He takes a deep breath and steps inside, deeply cognizant of the fact Allison is right behind him. He has to be strong for her. Has to show this is something they can do. He flips the light on in the entryway at the same time she closes the door. She walks around him before turning to face him, and as soon as he sees her face all of his previous intentions evaporate. The raw brokenness on it does not need a stone faced father. He has to go forward differently than their patterns in the past. Has to do better if he wants this to work.

So he opens his arms and lets her fall into them. Lets her cry into his coat as his tears slowly drip down his cheeks. Lets them both mourn for every memory this house holds, both good and bad. Lets them mourn together for the wife and mother they can never replace. Prays that it can finally be a clean sorrow.

Finally she sniffles and steps away. Looking at her red and swollen face he suddenly questions himself.

“Did I do the right thing?” he asks. “Bringing us back here? Should I have found another apartment?”

She shakes her head and his worry subsides. “No. The apartments weren’t home. Not in Paris, not here. It always felt like we were just one breath away from leaving again. When you told me we were coming back here…it’s the first time I believed you when you said we were staying.”

“Oh. _Oh_. Sweetheart…I didn’t realize—” But hadn’t he? Wasn’t that why he always kept the apartments impersonal? Why he never bought, only rented? Tying themselves down…permanency…it just increased the chances they would get hurt again. So instead of putting down roots he put in long hours. Hunted the towns outside of Beacon Hills, hard and fast and— and reckless. Looking for pain in other ways, he supposes.

“I’m sorry,” he finally settles on.

She smiles, a soft quirk of her lips. “No apologies. I didn’t say anything so how would you know? Besides, we’re back.” She examines him for a long minute and says, without explanation, “ _You’re_ back.” Then she spins back around to peer into the rest of the house.

“Let’s get some lights on. You had groceries delivered, right? People are a lot nicer when there’s food.”

He snorts and nods and follows her as she journeys from room to room. Boxes will come tomorrow, but for now they each drop an overnight bag in their respective bedrooms. He’s chosen a guest room. He’s not quite ready to sleep in the master. Definitely not ready to bring Peter into that space, not until he can face redecorating it so he does not see Victoria in every sheet and fixture and faucet.

Thirty minutes later, he’s making good progress on stuffed mushrooms when the doorbell rings. He frowns at the clock and shares the look with Allison. “It’s early.”

“I think it’s Lydia. She wanted to help me pick out stuff for my room.” She washes her hands and then hesitates. “It’s good, what Scott’s trying to do, right?”

He raises an eyebrow as the doorbell rings again and then Allison’s text notification sounds. “The idea or the place?”

“Both. Right?” He’s not sure why she’s seeking reassurance, or why she seems nervous. The nervousness might make sense, given the mix of people they’re about to host, but for reasons he can’t exactly pinpoint, he’s almost sure that’s not at the root of it. But it’s easy enough to give her an answer.

He nods, “Yeah. It won’t be easy, but it’s smart. He has to start somewhere if he really wants us to do this.”

“Okay. Good. Remember you said he had good judgment, okay?” And with that slightly worrisome remark, she’s gone to let Lydia in.

After Lydia, the next arrivals are Isaac and Stiles and then Melissa and Stilinski only a few minutes later. He loses track after that, the doorbell ringing at irregular intervals as he puts food out and keeps a close eye on tensions and arguments and makes sure he has a weapon close at hand just in case. He’s hopeful, not stupid.

Scott shows up somewhere in the middle. He peers into the kitchen and it doesn’t take a mind reader to see the uncertainty and apprehension on his face. Chris catches his eye and gives him a sharp nod. “You can do this, kid.”

Scott’s shoulders square and he nods back, resolve overtaking the fear. “ _We_ can do this.”

“Yep. Now,” He hands Scott a bag of chips. “Take those out. Give them to anyone that looks like they’re about to start arguing. Derek got here right before you.”

“Crap.” He takes off toward the living room at a run.

Peter is the last to arrive, slipping into the kitchen and boosting himself up to sit on the edge of the cabinet. “Well, this should be exciting. Not nearly as exciting as you abandoning me to the juniors and their history project, but still…”

Chris grimaces. “Sorry. I just needed—”

“Christopher, I am well aware you didn’t need curious onlookers for this afternoon. I’m not holding it against you. And I’m _sure_ you’ll find some way to make it up to me.”

“Oh I will, will I?” Chris teases, a lightness in his chest that forces him to work to keep a dopey grin off his face.

“Yes. Yes you will.” Peter sobers and wraps a hand around Chris’ neck, drawing him close until their foreheads are pressed together.

“Are you alright?” It’s an unusually serious and pointed question for Peter, who has not magically become easier to handle in the last 48 hours. His language is still sarcasm and wit and dismissal in almost every conversation. Chris closes his eyes and soaks in the rare moment of honesty.

“Yes. I think so. If we can survive Scott’s experiment.”

“Can we at least take a little pleasure in the fact both Talia _and_ Gerard would be horrified at what’s about to happen?”

They wouldn’t be the only ones. The hunter community hadn’t been exactly thrilled about Chris’ co-opting Beacon Hills as a no hunt zone, but this? This will send reverberations with very real consequences once the word gets out. And get out it will. There is no chance otherwise. The hunter crowd is a gossipy bunch.

“I think it’s only fair.” He waits until Peter hops down and they start toward the living room to drop another shoe. “Gerard’s funeral will be Saturday. That’s the soonest the Pensacola families can come.”

“So many hunters in such a small space. Are you sure we won’t all be murdered in our beds?” _Burned in our beds_ , Chris is almost sure Peter means to say.

“There’s protocol for this. Tradition. They’re here to bury the dead, not hunt.” Chris does not mention he’s already scheduled meetings with several family heads. With Gerard gone, there’s still a a chance he can finish what he and Victoria started.

“Right. Because tradition means _so_ much.”

“It does Peter. You know that.” Which is why the very act of stepping into his living room is not only revolutionary, it’s borderline seditious. And the only way they can move forward.

There are thirteen people crammed into the room, fifteen when he and Peter walk in, and the trouble starts immediately.

“Mr. Argent, what is _she_ doing here?” Lydia points accusingly to where Jennifer is lounging against the window sill beside Derek, who is crossed legged on the floor. Chris raises an eyebrow at Scott, sitting next to Allison, who is leaning against Isaac, all three of them crammed onto the couch with Lydia and Aiden.

Scott clears his throat and stands. “She’s here because I asked—”

“What the hell is _that_?” Derek spits it out with a growl, glaring accusingly at where Chris has just sat down and Peter, because he’s a complete _shit_ , has sat down on the ground between Chris’ legs, draped his arms across his thighs, and sent a challenging look around the room.

“Oh, hey, you didn’t get the memo?” Stiles looks up from where he has Cora dialed in on Facetime. “They’re totally fucking, man.”

“ _Language_ ,” The sheriff barks out, squished into a armchair with Melissa, but not looking at all upset about the close quarters.

Over in another corner, Chris’ younger self once again shares a wordless high five with Peter’s younger half. Chris would have preferred to keep them out of this, but with everyone _here_ there was no one to actually watch them, and, well, they won’t remember it anyway.

“Enough.” Scott’s voice booms out, deep with the authority he so rarely uses. Danny rolls his eyes and tugs Ethan more snuggly into the cradle of his thighs, too human and disconnected from the central pack to feel any of the latent power at all, but most of the other teens settle instinctively.

Peter, on the other hand, tips his head back to give Chris a long suffering look. Chris quirks his lips before mouthing _behave_.

Scott answers Lydia first. “She’s here because I asked Derek to invite her.” He forestalls the inevitable eruption as smoothly as he can. “Just listen. _Please_.”

Lydia looks less than happy but she snaps her blood red lips shut and waves her hand at him to continue.

Scott clears his throat. “First, thank you all for showing up. And um, thanks Mr. Argent for letting us meet here. Um, you know, sort of symbolic.” Chris inclines his head but doesn’t interrupt. “And thanks for calling in, Cora.” Stiles has his phone angled so Cora can see everyone, and she gives a half wave to the assembled room.

“Ah, so. Yeah.” Scott rubs his hands together and looks at Allison and seems to gather some kind of strength from her. “It was brought up to me that we don’t ah…we don’t all have the best communication.” He glances at Stiles who grins. Then Stiles turns immediately to Derek and gives him a thumbs up and an even wider grin.

“I mean, part of us communicate.” Scott waves his hand in the general direction of what Chris considers the pack main: Stiles, Allison, Isaac, and Lydia. “But, um, then not with everyone else and not everyone else with us. Or with each other. And uh, it leads to problems. Like, um…you know.”

Once again he waves his hand, this time toward Peter and Chris’ younger versions. Young Peter examines his nails and says loftily, “Please. We’re a goddamn blessing.”

“ _Language_!” Stilinski tries again. Both of the juniors just look at him incredulously, and even Peter looks bewildered.

“Sorry,” Stilinski says, entirely unapologetic. “It’s habit.”

“ _And_ —” Scott pointedly continues, “We need to fix that. Because this is our home. For all of us. And um, I think I haven’t been clear, maybe. So I’ll start. Aiden. Ethan.” The twins look startled, then confused, then…wary. Chris supposes they’re not used to any real kindness being dealt by alphas. “You are pack. You have been since you helped us. I’m sorry I didn’t say. That I didn’t realize you wouldn’t just know. I didn’t…your relationships weren’t like mine. But you are. Our pack.”

Neither of them say anything, their mouths hanging slightly open, but Danny and Lydia look mildly approving, which Scott seems to take as understanding. “Um, and Danny, you are. I just assumed you — _Man_. Our communication really _does_ suck.”

For half a second he’s just a teenager again, and then he pulls it together, adulthood falling back on him like a cloak, foreign and out of place on a child so young.

“Derek.” Derek raises thick, bushy eyebrows, like he’s daring Scott to continue. Scott sighs and walks over to him. Sits on the floor and faces him as if they’re the only two people in the room.

“You were right. You are my brother. I was just so _mad_. I didn’t mean to shut you out after everything. We could have done better with…all of this. But you know you’re pack, right?”

It’s almost an unbearable, unbelievable thing to watch, as Derek does not scoff, does not make light, but lifts his hand and sets it carefully on Scott’s shoulder. “It wasn’t all you. I didn’t exactly make it easy for you. I could have done better, too. But yes. I did know.” He leans in and says something so quietly that even the other werewolves in the room cannot hear, and Scott’s face lights up like he’s just been handed the moon.

Derek sits back and scowls, but Chris can see it’s just a mask. “Don’t let it go to your head.” Then he wraps his arm around Jennifer’s shin and the defiant look turns real.

Scott nods, then stands. “Jennifer.” He hesitates then adds, “and Peter.”

Peter sniffs and sits up straighter. “Oh, is this my part?”

Scott ignores him. “You’ve both tried to kill us.”

Separately, but also in an odd synchronism, Peter and Jennifer shrug. Scott visibly grits his teeth but pushes forward. “You’ve kept your promise, Jennifer. And you’re…” He turns back to Derek and asks bluntly, “Is she important?”

Derek’s eyes go wide and for an awkwardly long moment, he says nothing. On the surface, Jennifer doesn’t look remotely concerned, just pulls her phone out and starts texting. Chris takes note of the fact that, even in his silence, Derek’s body still angles toward her and his arm doesn’t loosen its grip. Finally, he speaks.

“Yes.”

Again, Jennifer doesn’t seem to react, but she types another few words before setting her phone back on the sill and tangling her hand in Derek’s hair.

“What do you want, Scott?” Blunt. To the point. She looks five seconds away from walking out of the room. Likely with Derek at her heels.

Scott answers back, just as bluntly. “Beacon Hills is your home. Before it was ours. Without what you know we’re inherently walking in the dark. And you want to protect Derek.”

“Do I?”

“Yeah. You do.”

She grins, suddenly soft. “Very good. You’re wearing that mantle well, Scott McCall.”

“Scott—” Lydia’s voice is a protest. A warning.

Scott looks at her apologetically. “Family isn’t always easy, Lydia. But we have to take care of it.”

“You’re part of this, Jennifer. If you want to be.” He looks around the whole room, making eye contact with everyone. Lingering on the adults until each of them gives him a nod, almost as if he’s waiting for their blessing. This was what he had really needed, when he had first called Chris this morning, proposing his plan. _“I need you guys to help me hold it together. Make sure nobody walks out at first.”_

“You too, Peter,” Scott says, although Chris can tell the words are hard for him. Chris sneaks a look at the juniors. Young Peter is sitting ramrod straight, staring at the proceedings with wide, unblinking eyes, while young Chris’ face is white with shock and edged with envy. Chris is sorry this was never something he could have been given when it could have changed anything. Although that’s not really a fair assessment. It is changing things for him. Now, far in his future. Existing while split in two makes it hard to keep grasp of the reality that they are still one in the same. Scott is speaking again, and Chris refocuses, rubbing his thumb in soothing circles between Peter’s shoulder blades.

“Everyone in this room is pack. With all of the responsibilities and benefits it brings. Which means we communicate. We tell each other things. We don’t try to go it alone. And we fight for each other. Not against each other.” He pauses on Jennifer with that, but she has her phone in her hand again, and only raises her eyes briefly to give a negligent nod. Scott sighs but keeps going.

“I need all of you to keep Beacon Hills safe. But more than that, I want all of you in my pack. Humans and parents and werewolves and…and…emissaries.” Jennifer gives him a look at that, because she hasn’t been an emissary in a very, very long time, and calling a Darach by another name does not change what she is.

“If that’s not what you want, nobody will stop you from leaving. But if you stay, the in fighting and the exclusion stops.”

He looks around the room, and everything goes tense. One…two…three uncomfortable moments. Derek scrutinizes Jennifer the entire time, jaw so tight Chris is surprises it doesn’t crack, breath held like he believes she’ll stand at any moment. But she doesn’t leave.

No one does.

“Oh thank God,” Scott finally breathes, collapsing back on the couch beside Allison as if he’d used every last ounce of energy to get through it. And he’s just a child again. They’re all children. Even Derek. Even _Jennifer_. Christ. Just children, and already changing their world.

Young Peter and Chris are silent, but Chris is holding Peter’s hand so tightly his knuckles are white, and Peter’s eyes are edged with something caught between wistfulness and envy. Chris feels the urge to apologize to them for some unknown reason.

“Okay,” Scott sits back up and rubs his face, while Allison softly pats his back. “Okay. Now that that is out of the way, we should do the communication thing. Um…” He looks at Allison and she looks back and gives an encouraging nod. Chris’ heart jumps into his throat.

“So…Allison and I…” He looks between Chris and Melissa and plunges forward. “…we’re dating Isaac.” Isaac sits stock still, almost quivering in his quietness.

Chris can breathe again, and Melissa slumps into the sheriff. “Oh, thank God,” she breathes. “I thought you were going to tell us Allison was pregnant.”

Chris nods and exchanges a look with her. “I guess we came to that bridge.”

“Wait… _what_?” Allison glares at him like he’s somehow done something wrong. “You were expecting this?”

“Er…” He looks at Melissa, at a loss for words and his leg shakes from Peter silently laughing at him. Melissa shrugs, signaling an elegant _good luck_. “Kind of? More on the scale of break ups and drama, so can I say I’m really proud you guys worked it out maturely?”

“I can’t _believe_ this,” Scott breathes, looking more mortified than when he had shakily told them.

“Hmph,” Peter interjects, completely _unhelpful_ , “I can’t believe you let this happen, Scott. Christopher—” Peter looks up at him with a feral, almost violent expression. “If you’re thinking I’m every going to be okay with—” 

Chris shuts him up with a hand in his hair pulling a shade too tight. “Never.” Objectively, he’s a little horrified at how angrily possessive the word comes out, but Peter immediately relaxes, falling back comfortably against Chris’ thigh. Over his head he sees Scott mouth something that looks like _told you_ to Isaac. Isaac nods stridently back, then looks timidly at Chris and Melissa. Chris takes a moment to remember that between the three of them - he, Melissa, and Stilinski - they were as close to parents as Isaac had these days.

“You’re really okay with it? You don’t think I’m…I don’t know…messing things up?”

One of them needs to adopt him, Chris realizes suddenly, and just as quickly realizes it will have to be Stilinski for this to be remotely acceptable.

“We’re okay with it,” Melissa assures him. “Might not understand it yet, but as long as you three are okay with it. _Are_ each of you okay with this?” Melissa looks completely ready to go to battle if she senses the least bit of hesitation in their responses. But they all nod emphatically, and that seems to be that.

“We are all so weird,” Danny breathes, but it’s more of a statement than a judgment.

“Christopher?” he hears young Peter whisper through the sudden quiet, and then his younger self’s response, “ _No_.” He jerks his head up and sees a look on his teenaged face that exactly reflects the emotion coursing through him just moments earlier. It’s almost disquieting to accept he had felt just as deeply possessive of Peter then as he does now.

“So.” Stiles claps his hands. “One revelation out of the way. You two wanna chime in now?” He looks pointedly at Chris and Peter.

“I’m not sure what needs to be said,” Peter deflects silkily.

“How about _what the hell you’re doing_?” That’s from Derek, returned to his earlier indignation.

“Derek—” Chris starts, but Derek immediately interrupts.

“No. Not from you. I want to hear from him.”

Peter waves one hand flippantly. “I would think it would be self explanatory. But since you are occasionally slow… Sex, drugs, rock and roll…you know how those things go.”

Chris crushes the disappointment that rears its ugly head. This is Peter on the defensive. It always has been.

“No,” Derek continues to doggedly push. “If that’s all it was, you wouldn’t be here with him like this. Smelling like he owns you.”

An audible gasp crashes through the room as eyes widen and spectators shift forward at the sudden crackle of challenge in the air.

Peter’s voice is a hissing acid drop, even as Chris finds his hand carefully cupping the back of Peter’s neck. 

“What? Like you’re here with _her_? Flaunting your poor choices as if you’re proud of them? Are you _really_ trying to say you’re not just dipping the wick anymore, dearest Nephew? Are you saying she _means_ something?” Peter’s entire body strains forward with the force of his words and Chris presses his fingers into his skin to call him back.

Derek sits up straighter and his eyes flicker blue. His answer is short and unequivocal. “Yes. She does.”

Another gasp sounds and Peter visibly deflates, falling back against Chris thigh. “Oh. Well. Fine. He tips his head up toward Chris again and asks, as petulant as he’s ever heard him, “Why isn’t anyone acting the way they’re supposed to?”

Chris grins around closed eyes and a shake of his head. “Brave new world, Petie.”

Peter snorts. “As an actually literary reference that never meant a single thing good.”

“Peter.” Derek refuses to back down. “You’re turn.”

“Derek, leave him alone. It’s not any of your—” Chris is dutifully doing his part to once again bridge the divide, stand as a shield so Peter doesn’t have to be stripped raw, when Peter himself interrupts.

“I am perfectly capable of answering for myself, Christopher. _Yes_ —” He spits the word out as baldly as Derek had, but with far more vitriol. “Yes, to every one of your questions. Yes, it is more than that. Yes, it means something. And yes, I am more than happy to be _owned_ as you so simplistically put it. You and Scott could write a book on your misunderstandings of our genetics!”

Chris’ fingers stroke light and careful and Peter rolls arches his neck into it for half a second before sniffing and returning to his lackadaisical posturing.

“Well. Is that what you wanted? Hmm?” Peter looks around the room at the varying degrees of expression. “Is that what you all wanted? Was that the communication you were looking for?”

“Yes,” Peter and Chris’ younger versions speak in unison. Without hesitation. 

Chris shakes his head at them. “I don’t think he was talking to you.”

“I just needed to hear your heartbeat,” Derek shrugs unapologetically.

“And I didn’t say it for you,” Peter shoots back. He doesn’t look up, but his hand curls around Chris’ ankle and stays there.

“Wow.” Scott looks a little stunned. “Okay. That was…that was really good sharing! Anyone else?”

“Cora’s coming home!” Stiles blurts out, and through the phone’s video, Chris can see the girl in question face palm. “We are official with a capital O!”

Derek mutters something about bad taste, but it’s said without heat, and Stiles just grins triumphantly in response.

“Okayyyyy.” Scott looks exhausted. Chris knows how he feels. Except right now there’s a particular thrumming in his blood that makes him feel more awake than he ever has, and Peter’s fingers press brands into his ankle.

Scott looks around the room again. “Anyone else? Anything we should know? Anything at _all_?”

Chris and Peter barely make eye contact before Chris is shaking his head in the negative. He’ll make it up to Scott later.

Jennifer stays resolutely silent, smiling blithely when she meets anyone’s gaze, but Derek holds up a duffel bag. “Deucalion’s journals. We should probably upload them to digital form in the future.”

Scott looks so _happy_. Like his greatest dream is coming true. Which, really, it is. All the kid has ever wanted is for everyone he cares about to stop fighting, and since he cares about damn near everyone…

Chris refuses to acknowledge the small smile on his own face.

“Great!” Scott claps his hands. “Great! We’re all works in progress so we can keep working on that. So…for the rest of it…Mr. Argent?”

Chris nods and gestures toward the basement and pretends he doesn’t see Stiles flinch. “Scott suggested Peter and I could use some help with…this.” He waves toward the juniors. “Beyond just the babysitting.” Young Peter and Chris grumble as expected and Chris talks right over them.

“He’s not wrong. We need fresh eyes.” He briefly fills them in on the story they’d found in Deaton’s files for the very first time, and why they believe it’s connected. “We still have missing persons files that have to be sorted. We need to try to figure out how we can undo this if we can’t find the sacrifices. Lydia…Stiles…maybe put your heads together with Jennifer. See if you can come up with a counter spell.” 

He’s fairly certain he hears Lydia mutter “I’ll put something in her head, alright,” under her breath, but when he makes eye contact she just smiles sunnily.

“Sure thing, Mr. Argent!”

“Good. We have all of Deaton’s files down there, too, so you can go through those.” 

“Hey! You never said—” Chris shrugs at Scott’s indignation. 

“You said he said we could use what we needed. Remember? And we needed.” Scott falls grumpily silent, so Chris takes it they’ve won on the technicality

And,” he adds carefully, oh so carefully, “Even phenomenal spell work requires a spark. We need to see if Deaton’s files mention anyone like that. Anyone at all.

“Everyone clear? Good.” He stands and then pulls Peter up. “Everyone head down and divide yourselves into tasks. I’ll order pizza. And it’s a school night. We close shop by ten.”

Everyone starts filing down to the basement. Stiles catches Derek right at the door, holding out the screen that still shows Cora, and Chris and Peter head toward the kitchen and a delivery menu. As they pass by Jennifer she bends close, head almost touching theirs.

“Here’s my pledge of good faith, Chris Argent. There are no bodies to find. So stop wasting your time looking for them.”

She steps back, nods, and follows the rest of the pack through the door.


	33. Chapter 33

_1986_

As soon as school lets out, Chris escapes, slipping out of the emergency exit so he won’t risk running into Peter. He’s barely been able to breathe all day. Without the distraction of Stephanie everything is even worse. Like every intake of air is filled with Peter now. He hadn’t fallen asleep until the sun had breached the horizon, and in consequence, _overslept_ , not stumbling out of bed until Gerard had come home, pounding on his door and telling him to get his lazy ass up. And then there had been Peter, and Peter, and Peter. He’d wanted to run. To pull away to keep his skin from touching his. But he couldn’t. Because Peter would read it wrong. Would think it was Chris hating him. God, it would almost be easier if he could say that. Could fall on the prejudices he should probably have.

He can’t go home. He feels naked, like Gerard will take one look at him and _know_. Instead of home he drives to the edge of the preserve. Gets out and hikes to his cave. He hasn’t been here since Peter found him, months ago. Bleeding and broken and curled in on himself from Gerard’s disdain. He’d hidden there to lick his wounds. To hide from his failure to live up to his father’s expectations. To hide from what he’d discovered about his best friend.

Now he hides from himself. From the thoughts and fantasies he cannot scourge from his brain. From the desperate need that has him waking hard and sweating in the middle of the night. That has him subtly pressing his palm against his crotch when Peter changed next to him for gym today. That makes him want and want where he knows he is not similarly wanted. If Peter had ever wanted him, Peter would have told him. Peter has never shied from taking what he needs. Not like Chris, who has always been a coward.

Chris just needs to find a way to focus his mind. To cleanse it from whatever had taken hold the minute he’d seen someone else touch Peter. He leans his head back against the rock, staring up at the ceiling and trying to think of anything other than Peter. Of anyone. He can’t lose Peter. Can’t drive him away because he’s unable to let himself go.

Maybe..maybe he could go where Peter went. Maybe he could slake this on someone else. But the picture is all wrong. He doesn’t want to touch someone else. Can’t imagine the thoughts he’s been bombarded with all week in relation to anyone but Peter. He doesn’t want to touch Stilinski or Deaton or that new kid in the back of physics that Chris can objectively recognize is good looking. Imagining touching them, kissing them, biting at their neck the way Peter had denied the man at the bar…it doesn’t disgust him, but it doesn’t turn him on, either. Not like when Peter inevitably replaces them in his brain.

Chris groans and curls tighter down over his knees. His eyes burn. He will not cry, he will not cry. He’s not sure which is worse, the dull ache in his groin, the growing pounding in his head, or the painful twist in his chest. He doesn’t know how to make it go away and despite his reassurances, he knows Peter is aware something is still wrong.

There’s a skittering of pebbles at the mouth of the cave and Chris is up with a knife in his hand before he properly thinks through the motion. When Peter appears through the shadow, he sighs, slumps back down to sitting, and shoves the knife back in his boot.

“Jesus, Chris.” Peter kneels before him and Chris curls in tighter, wraps his arms around his knees to keep from touching him. “What’s going on?” He’s in Chris’ space, and where usually that brings comfort, today it’s too close, too close.

“Nothing. Nothing. Just…dad’s at home and I can’t go home. Not right now. Just…I’m okay. I need…I need to be alone, okay?”

Mentioning his dad is the wrong thing to do, because Peter isn’t just close now, he’s putting his hands on him. Cupping his chin and pushing his head up and examining him like he can see right through him.

“What did he do? What did that fucking bastard do?” And then he’s between Chris’ legs, tugging up his shirt, “Let me see, Christopher!” —and then he puts his palms on Chris’ ribs, and Chris doesn’t think, he just reacts.

He shoves Peter away, hard and fast. “Get _off_ of me! Stop touching me!”

As soon as he says it he wants to _die_ , he wants to take it _back_ , because Peter skitters away, his face broken and scared and _devastated_.

“No, wait—” he reaches out a hand but Peter dodges to the side, neatly avoids it.

“You lied,” Peter spits out, but even his fury can’t completely cover the heartbreak underneath it.

“—No—”

“You lied and you said it didn’t matter, and you said you didn’t care, but you did.” Peter is starting to creep steadily backwards, crabbing on his hands and feet so he doesn’t have to take his eyes from Chris. Like he thinks he has to worry. Like he thinks Chris might _hurt_ him.

“Peter, no, please don’t…I didn’t—”

“You can’t even…you can’t even let me touch you. It’s not contagious, you dick! I wouldn’t ever try to —”

Chris can’t stand it. He can’t stand how Peter is almost out of arms reach. How he acts like he is just going to keep moving until he is out of Chris’ reach entirely. Maybe forever.

Again, he doesn’t think, he just acts. Lunges at Peter and grabs his shoulder and presses his lips fast against his. It’s dry and closed mouth and he barely feels the thrill up his spine before it’s over. Before Peter is jerking away and staring at him, startled and wide eyed.

Chris presses back against the wall and stares back, just as startled and wide-eyed. He says hoarsely, “I didn’t care you were fucking some guy. I was mad because it wasn’t _me_.”

The look on Peter’s face is just as taken aback as he’d expected, and as he watches, it shuffles through horror and anger.

Chris curls around his knees tighter. “Please don’t.”

The anger on Peter’s face is edged with something else, something softer, but Chris can’t decipher it.

“So what?” Peter finally says, “You figure out you like dick and suddenly it’s time to start moving through the male population, too? I mean, I get that I’m the token gay guy here, but that’s kind of insulting. You’re not _that_ good of a catch.”

“No! No, no, no! That’s not…look. I know…I know you don’t like me like that. You would have…you would have told me. And it’s okay. It’s okay. I just gotta…I just gotta get my head out of it. I’m working on it, I promise. Okay? I promise. So don’t…don’t be mad. Please don’t be mad. I didn’t mean to. I’ll make it go away.”

Peter’s face is doing something complicated. Disbelief…confusion…something pained and hopeful…aggravation. “I would have…told you.”

“I know! Okay, I know! That’s why I’m here, instead of out there,” he swings his arm toward the mouth of the cave, “hanging out with you! Because I’m gonna take care of it!” And now he’s aggravated, too, because why won’t Peter let him sulk his shame out in peace? “So can you please just go away? It’s really hard to make it go away when you’re sitting there with your stupid face and I keep thinking about kissing you!”

“It wasn’t a confirmation of your stupid assumption.”

“Huh?”

“Oh my _God_. Your stupid assumption that I would have told you! When, exactly, would I have told you? And _why_ in the world would I have told you? Did you not see how _scared_ I was yesterday when I found out you knew? Why in the world would I have risked telling my _straight_ best friend that not only was I gay, but that I had a thing for him?”

“Because you tell me everything. Because you’re not afraid of anything. You would have told me yesterday.”

Peter presses his palm to his forehead like he is praying for patience. “You are so stupid. You are so fucking stupid. Christopher—” Peter cuts off and stares at him for a long minute. The back of Chris’ neck gets hot and a shiver runs up his spine and he’s not entirely sure why. Peter’s eyes turn sad, and somehow wistful, and Chris is about to ask what’s wrong, promise he can fix it, when the sadness fades and is replaced with determination.

“You should kiss me.”

“ _What?_ ”

“You said I would tell you. So I’m telling you now. You should kiss me.”

“Petie…?” He wonders if he’s gone insane. If he’s actually hallucinating this.

Peter closes his eyes and shakes his head and grins. He scoots closer, chewing on his bottom lip. He looks just as scared as Chris suddenly feels but he meets Chris eyes and does not flinch. “Chris, I’m telling you I want you to kiss me. That I would have been happy if you had kissed me anytime in the last four years. Really would have preferred you kissing me to Jessica and Michelle and Maryanne and Ste— _Mmph_.”

Chris shuts Peter up with his mouth, and the entire world goes still.

Oh. Oh. _Oh_. So this…this had been what had been missing with every other kiss he had experienced. Peter tastes exactly as Chris had imagined he would, but the feel…the _feel_. Chris pulls back to take a shuddering breath, his forehead pressed to Peter’s. Peter’s mouth is parted. Wet. His eyes searching. Chris groans and fists a hand in his t-shirt and kisses him again.

It’s deeper this time, more than just a press of lips, and everything inside of Chris cracks open, bleeds between their mouths and threatens to drown him. Peter’s tongue is tentative at first, then increasingly less so as Chris meets it with his own, curls around it and then makes conquest into Peter’s mouth. He shuffles closer, as close as he can. Puts a hand on Peter’s neck and tilts it to the side, giving them a better angle to keep exploring.

“You feel so good,” he gasps. “God, you feel so good.” Maybe it should feel stranger, kissing a boy for the first time. Kissing _Peter_ for the first time. But it doesn’t. It feels easy. Peaceful. The most right out of anything he’s done in a long time. Like they were a lock and key that had just been waiting to slot together. Chris has the feeling he’d just been slow to catch on.

Peter’s eyes are wide and so very, very blue and a tiny, broken sound escapes when Chris speaks. “Better than all of them?” He drags a hand through Chris’ hair and bites his lip as he trails finger tips underneath Chris’ collar, across his collarbones. Chris’ head falls forward and his eyes flutter shut. “Better than all your girls?”

Chris laughs, a slightly crazed sound. “So much better.” He curls his hands around Peter’s slight hips and nudges him down. Peter goes easy enough, a strange smile on his lips, and Chris hovers over him, his hair just brushing Peter’s forehead. “So very much better.”

“Don’t worry,” Peter whispers, tugging Chris down, “I won’t tell anyone.”

It seems an odd thing to say, but then Peter is kissing him again, and they’re laying flush and _Jesus fuck_ Peter is hard and he’s pressed tight against Chris hardness and when Peter shifts his hips, they rub _together_ and Chris might just see stars.

“Shit,” he gasps and he can feel Peter’s smug grin against his lips.

“Oh yeah?” Chris shoots back. He runs his hand down Peter’s thigh and hooks it beneath his knee. He hitches Peter’s leg up and open and this time it’s Peter who gasps as Chris settles into the cradle of his hips. Chris is close to overflowing, to being overwhelmed by everything coursing through him, and without thinking it through, buries his face in Peter’s neck.

It’s nothing he hasn’t done a million times, but never like this. Never in a situation like this where shifter mores and traditions and vulnerability come into play. Never where it could be taken as a play for dominance.

But Peter goes so easy. Doesn’t hesitate as he tilts his head to the side and bares his throat. Chris feels a kind of triumph that goes bone deep. That is absent pride or hubris or anything related to conquering. This must be real, Peter must really mean it if he’s willing to offer Chris this. He can have this. He can have Peter.

At first Chris just inhales deep. Breathes in Peter as if he were the wolf and Peter the hunter. Peter’s breath catches and his hips shift more restless than they have the entire time. Chris is driven with the sudden desire to make him come. To do whatever it takes to get him off. To replace some nameless stranger in a bar with everything Chris has to offer. Peter would let him. He would. If he trusts him enough to offer him this.

Peter’s hand cards through his hair and Chris slips a hand up Peter’s shirt. Flat planes of muscle greet him and Chris draws lines through them, circles his belly button until Peter giggles and shivers. He moves Chris’ hand higher, rucking their shirts up together until they’re skin to skin. 

“Is it good? Does it feel good?” he mumbles into Peter’s neck. The fact that Peter is a boy seems so much less important than the fact he is _Peter_.

“Mmm hmm,” Peter mumbles back, like forming words it too much right now.

Chris pushes up, thrusts with his knees so that their cocks grind together through their jeans, and carefully, very carefully, drags his teeth down Peter’s throat. He’s prepared for any reaction, up to, and including, Peter punching him.

Peter’s palm slams into the ground and his eyes flash open wide and a garbled mess of words erupt from his throat. It’s a minute before Chris realizes there’s wet soaking through the front of Peter’s jeans.

“Oh. Oh fuck.” He gathers Peter to him, keeps his face buried in his neck, and thrusts repetitively. His jeans are stiff and uncomfortable, and the warmth of Peter’s cum is quickly turning cool, but none of that is enough to keep the friction and the knowledge that he’s made Peter blow from pushing him right over the edge.

He pulls away, short, shocky breaths panting from his body and a wide, startled, exultant grin on his face. Peter stares back, wearing a similar dizzying smile.

“That was…” Chris breaks off and just keeps stupidly grinning, at a loss for words.

“Yeah,” Peter concurs.

Afterward they sit shoulder to shoulder, knees pulled to their chests. They don’t say much, just rest their cheeks on their knees and watch each other. Chris thinks it’s too momentous for words.

“Chris,” Peter says finally. “That guy at the club—”

Chris rolls his eyes and shakes his head. He’d known how hypocritical that was from the start, judging Peter for doing exactly what Chris did all the time. His anger had never really been about that, anyway. Just misdirected loathing at himself for wanting what he couldn’t have.

“I don’t care. I don’t— I get it.”

Peter shakes his head and bites the inside of his cheek. “No, you don’t. We didn’t. You know. I didn’t let him. You just made it sound like the most disgusting thing in the world. Like I was the most disgusting thing in the world. I wanted to hit you.”

“Oh. _Oh_.”

“I haven’t ever. With anybody.” He looks embarrassed to admit it, and Chris hates himself just a little bit for how happy the knowledge makes him. He is a horrid, horrid hypocrite.

“Wait. Not even Mandy at Spring formal? But she said—”

Peter shakes his head. “It was— She said we did and it just seemed _easier_ , you know.”

Chris looks around at the cave. At the hard, uncomfortable floor he’d practically shoved Peter into. “I should have done better.”

Peter rolls his eyes. “You did just fine. Better than fine. And I refuse to stroke your ego by reassuring you. It’s huge as it is. Go talk to one of your girls if you want that.”

“I’ll do better.” Peter deserves better, regardless of the words coming out of his mouth. Peter deserves everything. “And can we stop talking about girls?”

One corner of Peter’s mouth curls up. “Okay, sure.” And Chris still doesn’t understand the note of sadness he;s catching every now and then in Peter’s eyes. Unless Peter’s just _saying_ it’s all fine and he really is judging Chris for his lack of couth in practically tackling Peter. Peter interrupts Chris’ spiraling panic by reaching out a finger and hooking it in his belt loop.

“It was good.” He huffs out a breath. “It was more than I ever imagined. I didn’t think I would—” He snaps his mouth shut and grins widely. “I can see where you get your reputation from.”

Chris shoves him with his shoulder. “Jerk.”

“Hey, I’m just sayin’… at least you know it’s not all just talk. I can now give a reliable reference.”

“Well, you’re the only reference I care about.”

“And nice pillow talk, too!”

Chris shuts him up by dragging him in by the front of his shirt and kissing him. Peter looks a little dazed when Chris finally lets him go. “I’ll do better next time.”

“Christopher, I’ve been your best friend for years. You act like you’re trying to make a first impression. Trust me, you ruined that a long time ago.” But Peter is grinning as he says it and then he surges forward and kisses Chris hard. “I’ll hold you to that. Next time.”

* * * * * * * * * * * * *

_Present_

Isaac lasts a whole hour in the basement before he’s forced to find fresh air. It’s not so much like his dad’s, not really. It’s brighter, much more open, and most telling, there is no freezer. Filled with the buzz of friendly voices and occasional laughter, he can almost pretend it is not a basement at all.

Until all at once he can’t.

He makes some excuse. Thinks it even sounds plausible, as neither Lydia nor Stiles look worried, and Allison just gives him a small, secret smile as he goes. He returns it shyly, even though there had been nothing shy between them earlier, and slips up to the main level and out the back door.

It takes him smelling smoke to realize he’s not alone, and even then it takes him another few seconds to locate teenage Chris at the far side of the deck. He’s still and silent, a neglected cigarette dangling loosely from one hand while the other rests open and listless on the railing.

Isaac approaches cautiously. This Chris is unpredictable, occasionally like a wild animal, albeit one that’s usually nice. Unpredictability always raises caution flags, and the only person who really seems to know Chris is Peter.

“Are you okay?”

Chris nods before putting the cigarette to his lips and drawing deep. He exhales, then turns to face Isaac. Maybe he thought the darkness would hide it. Maybe he forgot for a moment Isaac was a werewolf. Or maybe he just didn’t care. 

Chris eyes are red rimmed and wet.

“Shit.” Isaac stumbles over his words. “Do you— Should I go get Peter?”

“No!” Chris almost shouts, then, quieter— “No. It’s okay. I don’t— Just—

“My father’s dead.”

Oh. Chris draws in a shuddering breath and bows his head and the tendons in his forearms are stark as he grips the banister like a lifeline. His teeth are grinding and the air rushes in and out of his nose like a battle being fought behind closed doors. He fixes Isaac with a glare that hates him for being there, for hearing that and Isaac shrinks back, comes very, very close to sprinting back into the house. Then, in the blink of an eye, all of the aggression vanishes and Chris covers his eyes with his hand.

“My father’s dead. And he was awful…he was awful.” The deck takes on the ambiance of a confessional booth. “I know that. And he got _worse_. He should be dead. I want him to be dead. But he was my _dad_. He was my dad, you know. I shouldn’t be…I shouldn’t be fucking _crying_. And if Peter sees…he might think…and I don’t want him to think—”

He trails off and takes another drag and stares off into the backyard, so Isaac finishes for him.

“He might think you blame him.”

“But I _don’t_.” Chris says it fiercely, and Isaac believes him.

He cautiously reaches out a hand. For all that Chris and Peter constantly touch each other, they also seem to almost go out of their way to avoid anyone _else_ touching them. And Isaac isn’t looking to get hit. Usually it’s Isaac whom people treat like a wounded animal. It’s different to be on this side of it. But when he rests his hand on Chris’ shoulder - his really, really nice shoulder; Isaac isn’t _blind_ \- Chris slumps down, relaxes into it.

“I’m glad he killed my dad,” Chris says with quiet confidence, “It’s…it’s the most incredible…” He shakes his head and Isaac doesn’t speak this time, just lets him work out the thought. “But I can’t stop wanting to cry. It’s so fucking dumb.”

Isaac thinks for a minute before dropping his hand and slumping against the railing beside Chris. “My dad used to lock me in a freezer,” he says abruptly. It’s only the third or fourth time he’s actually said that out loud, and it burns his throat just as much as it has every time. Chris jerks and looks at him sharply and Isaac shrugs.

“He used to beat the shit out of me. He was an alcoholic and I wasn’t my brother and there are all kinds of reasons that aren’t really excuses, I know.” Score one for therapy. “I was always afraid and I just wanted to stop being afraid. It’s why I said yes when Derek offered the bite.”

Chris look turns even more sharp and Isaac realizes he probably didn’t know that Derek was ever an alpha, and Isaac probably shouldn’t tell him any of this but Isaac also doesn’t _care_. Because the rest of them, this patchwork pack he loves so much, Scott and Allison whom he _loves so much_ , really don’t get it.

“Is your dad—?” 

“He’s dead. And he was an awful father and an awful person and a lot of me _hated_ him. But if I could have saved him…I would have done anything to save him. I _loved_ him. So I get it. It makes sense.”

Chris smiles faintly, not looking at him again. He sighs, wipes his face against the back of his arm, and snubs the cigarette out on the rail. “My dad—”

Isaac doesn’t make him say it. “I know.” And when Chris’ face turns angry, betrayed, Isaac hurries forward. “Nobody told me, I promise. I just— I could tell. When we first met. It’s kind of like a mirror, you know?”

Chris scoffs and rolls his eyes. “Yeah, whatever. I’m not like you. My dad’s just—”

“Trying to raise you right? Make you stronger? Teach you lessons?” Chris’ posture stiffens defensively, so Isaac clears his throat and takes another chance, nudges his shoulder against Chris’. “I know.”

“What if I’m like him?” This confession comes so quiet that even Isaac’s werewolf senses are strained to hear it. And that, at least, Isaac knows how to answer.

“You’re not. You did better.” And this time it’s Isaac who stares blindly into the night. “I’m afraid I won’t do better.”

Chris’ laugh is a broken, disbelieving thing. “Are you kidding me? With all of that?” He waves his hand behind him. “With all of them? How can you not?” And Isaac understands the note of jealously there. He’d burned with it back when he was still Derek’s beta, back when he’d looked at the closeness of Scott’s pack and not understood why he still wasn’t worthy of that, why he still couldn’t make the adults in his life care about him. “They’ll make sure you’re okay.”

Isaac shrugs. “On the good days, I think that too.”

Neither of them speak for a long minute before Isaac decides to break the rules again.

“You made a difference for me. You should know that.”

“What?” He’s managed to startle Chris.

“After everything happened. You didn’t have to. You thought I killed some people, but I didn’t. And then I definitely tried to kill some people, but I didn’t. And then your wife—” He shakes his head. “That doesn’t matter. I wasn’t your responsibility. But…um…you started taking care of me. You and Ms. McCall and the Sheriff. You let me stay with you guys sometimes and you make sure I get haircuts and you were the one who finally talked me into going to therapy. And that helped. A lot. You acted like parents _should_.

“You didn’t have to, you know? You could have been different. After everything that happened. With what Gerard did to you. But you made a choice somewhere and it made a difference to me. It made a difference to _all_ of us. And I thought you should know that.”

“Oh.” Chris looks slightly shell shocked, but also less fractured. He ducks his head and clears his throat and when he looks back up only the red around his eyes indicate he’d ever been anything less than fine. “Thanks. I’m glad he helped.”

For a long time neither of them speak, just stare out into the yard in a silence that isn’t uncomfortable, but finally Isaac looks sideways and ventures, “He’s you, you know. It’s okay to accept that.”

Chris scowls but then holds out the pack of cigarettes. “Want one?”

“Um, no. I actually love myself. And my lungs.”

Chris rolls his eyes but stuffs the pack back into his pocket. “Whatever. I’m gonna go find Petie.”

Any vulnerability seems to be gone, but just before he disappears inside Chris stops and nods. “You’ll do better than your dad, Isaac. You will.”

* * * * * * * * * * * *

It’s been thirty-six minutes since Chris disappeared upstairs to take a piss. Peter would have been worried after the first fifteen, but he’d smelled the faint odor of cigarette smoke so assumed Chris was taking a smoke break. And then he’d gotten caught up in an argument with Stiles, because Stiles just doesn’t know when to _shut up_. And it’s only when it almost escalates to blows, when Scott shoves himself between them, that Peter realizes exactly how much time has passed. Realizes Chris isn’t safely at his side. Logically he knows Chris is fine. They’re in what amounts to his _house_ for Christ’s sake. But then he notices Lydia is also missing, and irrational as it is, he can’t stop hearing the sound her knife had made slicing into Chris’ chest.

He walks up the stairs as quickly as he can without losing his air of nonchalance and closes the door behind him. The lingering smell of smoke leads him to the kitchen and it’s there he finds Lydia - sans Chris - daintily eating a piece of pizza as she examines an open file. Other files are laid out across the island, their box abandoned on the stool beside her.

“What are you doing?”

She doesn’t look up. “I would think it was obvious.”

“But why are you up here?”

“Because you’re all loud. And annoying.” Her heartbeat upticks just slightly. A lie, but only a partial one.

Smoke is still drifting fresh through the back door, which means Chris is just taking the longest smoke break in history. And while Peter feels the ever present pull to join him, the fact that he has to grudgingly admit that Lydia is _almost_ as smart as him has him joining her to look over her shoulder.

“Speaking of annoying—” she sing songs out, sounding, for half a second, eerily like Katie.

“Did you find anything? I thought you were supposed to be working with Stiles.”

“Yeah, well, he’s also supposed to be working with Jennifer, so— I work better alone.”

Also a lie, which he knows not because of any change in her heart, but because he’s seen how she and Stiles play off one another, how they work together and push each other until they achieve results neither could alone. Which is another reason he pauses here.

“So did you? Find anything?”

She makes a face and shakes her head. “Not really. But it’s not like there’s much to go on. I’m not even sure what they mean by coming up with an alternative.”

He leafs through another file, with brittle paper written in English so old it barely qualifies as readable, and mentally weighs his options before committing to his course. They can’t do this alone. They need to trust someone, and for a very convoluted list of reasons, that someone has to be her. He closes the file and faces her.

“There are pieces missing. They’re not telling everything.”

Lydia rolls her eyes. “Jennifer is never going to tell us everything. I can’t believe Scott is this stupid.”

Peter shakes his head, though he doesn’t disagree. “Not her. Them. Chris and Peter. They’re— why do you hate her so much?”

“What kind of idiotic question is that? Why wouldn’t I hate—” She snaps her mouth shut and narrows her eyes. “Nice try.”

He shrugs, unrepentant, and idly leafs through the box of files on the table. “Worth a try. It’s like you hate her even more than you hate him— me.”

“He only _tried_ to kill us.” He’s attempting to digest that tidbit when she turns it back on him. “What do you mean Mr. Argent and Peter aren’t telling us everything?”

“When Scott asked, and they said no, they were lying.”

“Their hearts?”

He shakes his head. “No. It’s not— They aren’t hiding things from us anymore. They’re talking about the past some, too. A few days ago it wasn’t like that. They know something they aren’t saying.”

“Oh, okay. That’s your evidence? Your big proof? They’ve slipped up and so there must be some conspiracy? I’m surrounded by morons.”

“Chris doesn’t slip up. And neither do I.”

“Did it ever to you that now that they’re happy, the chemical reactions in their brains are causing a correlating response in their impulse control? Causing a relaxation in natural survival instincts because it’s simulating the feeling of safety?”

He blinks at her blankly before recovering. “No, it didn’t. But it started before that.” He presses his lips together tightly before forging ahead. “Besides, there’s more.”

When he doesn’t continue, her eyes narrow and she starts tapping one sharp nail against the granite. “Spit it out.”

He nods. “We walked in on them having sex. And—”

She cuts him off with a retching sound. “That’s disgusting. You understand I can’t actually bleach a human brain, right? That you’ve stuck me with that mental image?”

“Please. It was hot. They’re hot. We grow up _hot_. Admit it.”

Her eyes narrow further and she tilts her head to the side. “Fine. Mr. Argent is definitely a silver fox. But he’s apparently attracted to psychopaths, and I’m not. So still _ew_.”

She’s dating a _vargulf_ , so Peter considers calling bullshit, but that’s really not the point here. Instead, he forges on.

“ _Anyway_. Chris—the older one— didn’t have a shirt on.”

“—okay, definitely hot—”

He gives her a dirty look, not sure if it’s for interrupting or for talking about what’s _his_. “And he has an old scar. Here.” He draws a line with his finger high on his right side, across his ribs. When she doesn’t immediately make the connection he makes an exasperated sound.

“Right _here_. Right where _you_ stabbed him.”

He sees the second she gets it. “Oh. _Oh_.”

“Yeah. Oh.”

“It doesn’t necessarily mean anything. It could have just appeared after I stabbed him - your fault by the way - because it changed the temporal stream. The exact reason you aren’t supposed to know anything about now. Because it changes the temporal stream.”

“I know. _I know_.” After all, it’s what they’re counting on. Except— “But we slept together, too. At the motel. And yesterday. Lots and lots of times yesterday.” He gets lost in it for a minute, until Lydia pinches his arm. _Hard_.

“ _Bitch_ ,” he hisses without much heat, then continues. “Which they say didn’t happen for them. But they should remember it now, right? If things are changing that fast? Logically they should start having all of our memories. But they _haven’t_.”

“That…doesn’t make sense. What does Chris think?”

Peter looks down at the island. “He didn’t see it. And I haven’t told him yet. But I’m going to,” he says quickly, just in case she thinks otherwise. “I just didn’t want to ruin it.” Wanted to steal the perfect peace of the hours following for just a little longer. “I just thought they would say something. After all of—” he waves his hand disgustedly toward the living room, “— _that_. And then it would make sense. I could put it together. But they didn’t. So for some reason they’re trying to keep us from knowing. Because I know us and we’re not stupid so they won’t have missed it and whatever is happening they have to _know_. But if they won’t tell, then we can’t figure out how to get back, and we _have_ to get back. Chris wants to get _back_.”

“What about you?” She looks at him sharply. “Don’t you want to go back?”

“I want to be wherever Chris is. Wherever we can keep this train wreck from happening to us.” Whether that’s then or now stopped mattering to him, as long as he’s with Chris. “But _you_ want us gone. So help us figure out what’s happening. And help us _go_.”

He’s not sure from where the sudden anxiety springs, but all at once it’s taking everything in him to keep breathing. In and out. In and out. To keep his face normal and amused and _something_ resembling the ability his older self has to pretend nothing in the world can touch him. Nothing but Chris. He’d known from the second he’d seen his older self that that had never changed.

Lydia doesn’t look convinced, but she doesn’t look like she’s ready to outright refuse. Or worse, rat them out to their older selves. And he also knows something she doesn’t.

“He’s sorry.”

“Excuse me?”

“Peter. He’s sorry for what he did to you. For using you to get resurrected.”

She gives him a look and starts pulling more files from the box. “No he isn’t.”

Peter considers and tries again, modifying. “Okay, he’s not sorry he used you to get resurrected. That’s fair. And he’d do it again. But he regrets the side effects. For making you seem crazy.”

She shakes her head. “No he doesn’t.”

But this time Peter insists. “Yes he does. He’s not gonna tell you because it doesn’t fix it and it’s beside the point and the only person he actually cares about in the long run is Chris, but he does.”

“Really. He told you that.”

This time Peter rolls his eyes at _her_. “He doesn’t need to. I’m _him_ , remember? So if I say I regret it, then I regret it. That’s how it goes.” Not that he actually wants to apologize either, even if it is as proxy. But Chris would want them to. And besides, Peter can admit they did a pretty shitty thing.

She looks at him sideways. “That’s funny. Pretty sure the only thing I’ve heard from you is how you’re _not_ him. Won’t ever _be_ him.”

He shrugs and holds her eyes as he says flatly. “I know what I’m capable of now. Are you gonna help or not?”

“I’m not sure what you think I can do. Frankly it sounds like some kind of memory thing. You know, like you guys do with the claws?”

Peter shakes his head emphatically. “No one outside an alpha pack would do that. It’s abusive and traumatic. We have _lines_.”

For some reason that makes her laugh, a short, tinkling, ugly sound, but she doesn’t argue, just waves him on. “Okay, sure. Then what?”

“A witch could do it. All of this has to be a witch. So if we can just figure it out. Figure out the reversal spell— I’m _brilliant_ , okay? And you’re not an idiot. And Chris thinks he’s dumb but that’s just stupid Gerard, because he’s actually--”

She waves him quiet. “Even if we figure it out. Even if we could recreate it or reverse it or whatever idiotic thing you’re thinking, we’d need something to get it going. Something to start the magic. Something _not_ Jennifer.”

“I know. We need a match. Or at least a spark.”

Lydia’s eyes widen.

“What? _What_?”

“Just something that Stiles said. He told me Deaton once called him a spark. He never explained it because Deaton never _does_ , and Stiles was laughing like it was joke, but—”

“Deaton never says anything without a reason.”

“I _know_ , you—”

The back door opens and Chris walks in and for half a minute everything else ceases to matter.

“Hey,” he grins.

“Hey,” Chris grins back. Then thirty seconds is up and Peter sees the red around Chris’ eyes and the scent of salt water seeps through the smell of smoke. 

Peter sucks in a breath and opens his mouth and then _Isaac_ comes tripping in behind Chris. For another bloody five seconds Peter thinks this is because of something Isaac has done and that same dark haze that had led him to Gerard starts clouding the corners of his vision. He takes a step forward, mouth still open on a question, but then Isaac catches his eye and jerks his head toward Chris and gives a small, minute shake of his head. Then, as if he thinks Peter still won’t get it, mouths a small _don’t ask him yet_.

Between one blink and the next Peter throws an arm around Chris’ shoulder and moues. “Did you inhale the entire pack? You know those assholes aren’t gonna buy us any, and at this point they aren’t gonna give you any more chances to _steal_ any.”

Chris’ grin turns wide and dirty and he rests his forehead against Peter’s. “You gonna give me something to suck on instead?”

“ _Ohhh-kay_. I’m done.” Lydia steps around them, grinding her heel hard on Chris’ foot as she goes, and links her arm through Isaac’s. “Come on, Isaac. We’re gonna go get Stiles. Quietly.”

Peter barely hears her, already distracted by Chris pressing feather light kisses against the corners of his mouth, but he waves her on with a distracted hand.

“Petie,” Chris has moved to his jaw now, “why are we getting Stiles?”

Peter signs dramatically and resigns himself to stepping back. “Because, Christopher, I’m tired of waiting for the rest of these idiots to rescue us. We’re obviously going to have to do it ourselves.”


End file.
